Spectral Analysis
by Crystal Shekeira
Summary: Beast WarsG1. Victorious over Megatron, the Maximals return to Cybertron. Yet, they are thrust into a new war: that of politics. And their allies? The very ancestors they saved.
1. Prologue: The Tripredacus Council

**Author's note: Completely disregard the events of _Beast Machines_. This tale takes place following the events of _The Nemesis: Part II_.**

_From little spark may burst a mighty flame.  
__—Dante, Paradise (canto I, l. 34)_

In the highest tower of the largest Predacon space station orbiting the golden planet of Cybertron, the Tripredacus Council reconvened.

"Deep-space scanners indicate the presence of an Autobot shuttle," intoned the councilmember on the left, fingers dancing intricately along the tabletop.

"Any visuals?" the center member inquired.

"Grainy at best. It seems to be carrying a missile, or cargo, on the back."

The right-most councilmember frowned. "An ancient Autobot shuttle? There is but one in the Cybertropolis Museum of Great War History; the rest were decommissioned and smelted."

Center waved Right's musings away with a curt gesture. "Where it came from is no matter; where it is heading, is."

Left continued with his report. "Trajectory has it heading towards the Cybertropolis Spaceport."

Growls rolled from three vocalizers, rumbling across the table and down into the bowels of the tower. "The Spaceport is owned by that cursed noblemech, is it not?" Center snarled, realizing that whatever advantage they might have had was nil. "The ex-Autobot?"

Right curled his hand over his chin. "Yes, it is. What is his name?"

Left leaned forward. "Mirage."


	2. Not My Kind of Homecoming

**Chapter One**

_Everyone confusedly conceives of a good in which the mind may be at rest, and desires it; wherefore everyone strives to attain it.  
__  
—Dante, Purgatory (Canto XVII, line 127)_

Spectrum refused to acknowledge the port's security captain, even though he laid a hand on the mech's arm. "—Sir." Spectrum ignored him, completely occupied with the holographic feeds coming from the satellites. He could barely believe his own optics, but proof was staring him in the face: an Autobot shuttle – and a working one at that.

"Hijack, get me a magnification of that bump on the top," he ordered, though the security captain still held onto his arm.

"Working, sir," Hijack reported from down below. Spectrum's brow ridge furrowed as the magnification increased, click by click; it was pixilated beyond belief.

"Can you smooth it out?"

"No, sir. Too far away. Once it gets closer I can."

That wouldn't do. Spectrum fingered the control panel, tapping the heel of his taloned foot against the bottom of his chair. "Send out a probe."

Along the side, Firewall swiveled to look up at him. "Sir: we have no camera-probes available."

A light pulse began to work its way along Spectrum's temple, running along the ridge of his brow and through the dagger-sharp prongs on either side of his head. "Send out a scanner, then. I want this identified before the central Cybertronian satellites get to it. I was put in charge of defense, dammit, and we'll slaggin'-well do it! I don't want the media involved."

Someone along the bottom of Spectrum's dais grumbled under his vocalizer about the commander's connections leading him to receiving this post. Spectrum ignored the snide remark. He stood up, knocking the security captain's hand away and stepping up to the rail that separated his station from the rest of the tower. Before him was a panoramic Plexiglas plate, affording him a complete 360-degree view of his domain. All around, shuttles were landing, taking off, or being serviced. Hundreds of Transformers milled the grounds, all doing their part to make everything as efficient as possible. Hanger bays lay to the side, gleaming gold and ivory in the light of the sun, thin lines of blue ran parallel along their walls.

"Probe sent, sir," Firewall relayed.

"From which satellite?"

"Fifth-ring. Contact with craft in five, four, three … Visual."

From a thin projector in the center of the tower, a wide image appeared. Spectrum leaned on the rail, his wings rising over his back as he studied the time-lapsed image. Though not a camera's hologram, the probe was built with a device that produced a grainy, but serviceable, line-drawing. There was the outline of the Autobot shuttle – atop it, appearing to be stapled, was a creature no one had ever seen. But Spectrum, raised off Cybertron, recognized it: an old Earth legend, a dragon. But a head on what seemed to be an arm?

Beast-technology. It had to be. But what reconnaissance team had been sent to such a planet? And where had they gotten an _Ark_ shuttle? "Rebound, get me a list of all reconn ships. Which ones had protoforms?"

There was silence, save for the hum of the projector, the subtle whistle of ventilators, and the click of digits on comps.

"None, sir, not in the last stellar cycle."

"Expand. Hijack – run a scan on that thing's face. Run it through the database. Firewall, increase."

"Aye, sir," the chorused.

Spectrum's wings twitched abominably. Reaching around, he soothed the errant pinions and came into contact with another hand – one that he recognized. "Illusion."

His sister smiled, her own wings rising in greeting. "Just got in. What have we here?"

"Don't know," he replied, turning about. "Is he still in session with the Maximal Elders?"

Illusion slipped beside him and nodded. "Yes. Should be for another few mega-cycles."

"Dammit." Spectrum sighed. "You'll have to break him out. They both need to be here."

She grinned, flicking a slim silver finger over his crest. "I don't think he'll mind." Leaving him to fan his crest back into place, she turned, plumage ruffling in mirth about her neck and shoulders. With a step that was the envy of all highborn femmes, Illusion danced out of the command center.

"Accurate visual in five, sir," Firewall chimed.

"Audio?"

"On my mark, sir … ten, nine …"

* * *

Rhinox should have been prepared to be hailed, but when it actually happened, he was surprised. Turning in his seat, he looked over his shoulder at Optimus Primal and stated the obvious. 

"From where?" Primal lurched to his oversized feet and in one step, was at Rhinox's side.

"This ancient technology is just that – old. It says 'Iacon Spaceport' … but that can't be right. Iacon was remodeled into Cybertropolis Spaceport stellar-cycles ago."

"You mean one of those squeaky-ports wants to talk to _us_?" Rattrap exclaimed, flicking his hands in a comical imitation of the elitists. "Well, I'll be! Let me shine my hiney –"

"Shut up, Rattrap," they chorused, and Primal backhanded the espionage specialist to stave off any further comments. "It might not be the Elder's platform, but it's close enough. We can't afford to waste fuel, or give Megatron more time to break free. We're landing."

A green light atop the command console beeped discreetly. Rhinox looked at Primal and reached up to accept the connection.

"_Cybertropolis Spaceport Commander Spectrum,"_ blared an unfamiliar, but resonant voice, touched with the accent of the elite. "_Identify yourselves."_

Optimus leaned over the console, taking control. "Captain Optimus Primal, formerly of the survey ship Axalon. We receive you."

A click of silence. Then: "_Captain Primal. Stay your course. We are clearing the landing strip for your arrival. Upon landing, please remain in your craft. Your passenger will be taken care of first, and then you will be boarded."_

Shocked looks all around. "They can't do that – can they?" Cheetor exclaimed.

Primal kept his hand off the "reply" button. "We're hardly in a position to refuse, Cheetor. Best let the proper authorities handle him now."

Rattrap sniffed. "Yeah, just like they handled him before. Prob'ly'll give old purple-face over to the Preds and he'll be off again."

Optimus frowned, but this time, Rattrap made complete sense. He turned around. "Commander Spectrum, with all due respect, you don't understand the situation –"

"_Captain Primal,"_ came the cultured reply, "_I might not 'understand', but anyone strapped to the top of a shuttle hardly deserves a warm welcome. He will be taken care of and put in stasis."_ Another pause_. "Rest assured, we have accurate enough information to identify you and your crew, and the passenger you carry. This new Megatron shall not escape again."_

"Hm, seems they thought of everything." Rhinox cast a thoughtful glance at the console. "We don't have to worry."

Optimus sighed, eying the remnants of his crew. "About Megatron? I always worry."

"_Captain Primal?"_

Optimus depended the "reply" button. "Yes, Commander?"

"_Do sit back and relax. Tractor beam is in place. Welcome home, Maximals, welcome to Cybertropolis."_

Again, Rattrap sniffed. "Hardly a homecoming I'd've wanted, crating horn-head …"

But there was Cybertron, in its golden glory, looming far above their heads, beacons of light from a hundred thousand points on the planet shining towards the deep onyx of space. Moment by moment, it grew until it filled their field of view, overwhelmed their senses with a thousand different emotions. Among the gold were shots of silver and ivory, some of blue and white, others of green and yellow. The shuttle tipped to the side, banking for entry. Over the gleaming hub-capital of Cybertropolis, formerly the old Autobot seat of power, they flew, headed for a massive spear of silver-grey jutting savagely, beautifully, towards the sky. Around them, the sky was completely clear of traffic; they had grounded everything.

Anticipation fluttered through the bridge; Cheetor fairly bounced off his seat and resorted to sitting on his hands. Silverbolt and BlackArachnia simply gazed at each other, thoughts of how to fit into this strange new world running through their heads. Rhinox mused, Rattrap frowned, and Optimus worried. Faintly, they could hear the roar of Megatron as he realized where they were going.

Lower and lower they dropped, the fine details of the Cybertropolis Spaceport becoming more apparent as time passed. With a final banking curve, they angled towards the tower and the completely-cleared landing strip. Down below, tiny figures milled, some sitting atop equipment, others appearing to be holding long-range weaponry.

"Cutting jets," Rhinox announced quietly. The beam held them in place, but it was the scientist who lowered them to the ground, in the direct center of the strip. With a shift from side to side and the hiss of pneumatics, the craft settled and there was peace.

Well, save the _snick_ of a gun being prepped. "Put that away," Optimus snapped, rising. Rattrap affected a hurt mien.

"Awr, man. Sorry, old habits."

With a sigh and a glance to heaven, Optimus lumbered between the seats of the shuttle to stand at a respective distance from the shuttle's main door. Beyond, Rhinox and Cheetor looked down and out from the view screen, and the port authorities looked back up at them. Momentarily, there was a knock on the hull; a scraping and pounding on the roof echoed around. Though muted though the thick metal hide of the shuttle, harsh, vulgar voices called out as Megatron roared.

"Hope they hit him hard," BlackArachnia mused, clenching her hands into fists.

"Alas, I do agree with you, my love," Silverbolt murmured.

There was a discrete knock on the side paneling. "Lower the ramp, Rhinox," Primal ordered. Rhinox, though thrilled to be home, couldn't stem the hesitation that filled his spark as he reached over to pull the outrageously-large lever. Ancient hydraulics whined and clattered, but the ramp went down all the same. Light poured golden and welcome across the floor of the shuttle, illuminating Optimus' armor. Shading his optics, he peered through his fingers to see three figures standing at the end of the ramp. One was decidedly taller than the others who flanked him – long, lean and with a carriage that bespoke his position, the mech Optimus mentally identified as Commander Spectrum and his guards stepped up and entered the shuttle.

Yet, whatever pride the mech might have had flew out through his exhaust port as he laid optics on Optimus. Clear, sky blue orbs did a little dance of disbelief inside his head as he took in the sight of Optimal Optimus.

"Captain … Primal."

Internally, Optimus sighed with relief. This was no self-important port commander, not if he allowed himself to betray his emotions. As the commander took in Optimus' appearance, so did Optimus take in his: the commander was tall, true, but not as tall as he. The mech had a beast-form, which was unusual for someone of his rank: what it was, exactly, Optimus could not tell, but he was able to find hints of a bird, or four-legged animal in the commander's features. A hybrid, like Silverbolt? True, there were those broad brown wings that laid folded with precision along the commander's back, and taloned feet; but, like Silverbolt, there was evidence of paws linked over the mech's shoulders, and a hint of a plumed tail between them.

And then there was his face: Spectrum's helm design tugged at Optimus' databanks, a wisp of a memory, of a glance he'd taken at a history book at the Academy. Dappled brown and white, edged with blue, it formed about his silver face with almost regal care. Two long spines rose up on either side of his head, between which ran a brown-white crest of feathers. Flanking him, Spectrum's guards appeared downright plain – one was predominately green, the other beige.

"Welcome home, Captain Primal," Spectrum declared, extending a slim but strong brown metal hand. No, Optimus conceded, not fey at all, despite appearances. Gingerly, he took the proffered hand, but his attempts at reigning his own unknown strength proved for naught, as Spectrum took control, exercising a firm, strong grip.

"Thank you, Commander."

Spectrum grinned, showcasing a set of fine, pointed teeth set in a sharp-planed face. "Spectrum, if you will."

"Optimus, then," he compromised, watching the shift of Spectrum's face at his name. Elite he might be, but subtle – not particularly, it seemed.

"And your crew?" Spectrum linked his hands behind his back, wings fanning slightly as he craned his neck to look over the high backs of the Autobot chairs.

One by one, they came forward and Optimus introduced them. Spectrum's brow ridge lowered in thought and his lips pursed as he took in their appearances. The mech was thinking – hard. "Well, welcome home, all of you," he said at last. "Please, come with me, we'll go up to my office and you can tell me how you call came to be this way – and to have a criminal strapped to a relic."

But the courtesy was too much to afford. Optimus held up a courteous hand. "Commander – Spectrum," he amended, "we need to see the Elders, immediately."

Spectrum rocked back on his heels, all strappings of insecurity removed. He was now the port commander. "Alas, no."

"WHAT!" Rattrap exploded. Beside him, Rhinox cuffed the metal rat into silence.

"Yes, why?" Optimus peered down at Spectrum, brow ridge drawn down in disbelief. "We have to warn them about the Predacons – and of Megatron."

"I'm afraid there's been a change of plans, Optimus. You see, no one outside of this spaceport knows you are back. Since we hooked you with the tractor beam, your arrival has been cloaked."

"On whose authority?" Rhinox demanded, curling a fist and shifting one bulky foot forward.

"Not of these Elders," Silverbolt mused, running a hand over his own short head-spines.

Spectrum flashed a thin smile. "You are correct, Silverbolt. Not the Elders; they do not know about your arrival, either. And those in charge do not wish them too – not yet."

"But – why?" Optimus repeated in disbelief. "Megatron –"

"If you didn't hear, he's been taken care of. Believe me, with the two set to escort him, you have no need to worry about him escaping. But, the Elders – if we bring the criminal-under-the-name-of-Megatron to the Council of Elders, the Predacon Alliance will be notified out of courtesy. I suspect they know, however, but they won't act – not unless we announce it. They're as touchy about this subject as we are."

"Politics," Silverbolt spat.

"Aye," Spectrum agreed, tilting his head in an odd gesture to the wolf-eagle.

"So why don't we slag him right here?" Rattrap insisted, tapping his fingers along the stock of his gun.

"Politics," Spectrum replied, shrugging. "Catch-22. For now. But, please, join me. I have some people wishing to meet you." In a flurry of feathers, he turned with his escort and began walking back down the ramp.

Optimus sighed. "Let's go, crew."

"But Optimus – the Council," Rhinox protested.

"We go, old friend," the large mech replied, the weight of a new war pressing down upon his shoulders.

"Well, I want to see what the inside of the spaceport looks like," Cheetor piped up, a little too brightly. But no one chastised him, for Spectrum had turned around and gestured for them to follow.

They fell into place behind the strange port commander. Around them, workers scrambled over the Ark shuttle, attaching lines to pull it into a hanger for inspection. In the distance they could see Megatron being hauled off, bound head to toe with energy bonds. Dimly, Optimus could see that the two mechs escorting the prisoner were large – one red, the other yellow. And then they were gone, vanishing into a hole in the port floor, presumably into a holding area out of sight.

The command tower loomed substantially above them, great lines of gold and blue shooting through the silver metal. But it was not towards this building that Spectrum led them – he took a turn to the right, and dismissing his escort, bade them enter a smaller building. "My office," he offered, holding the door open.

Optimus had to duck, but as of late, it was hardly unusual. Still, he was surprised when he was able to straighten fully – the ceiling was vaulted, completely belaying the outer Unitarian appearance. Spectrum directed them along the hall; all around were holographic pictures, statues and models on crystal pedestals. They paused at intervals, hardly believing their own optics – these weren't the standard fare of Cybertron panoramas or space-shots, no: they were portraits of the Great War heroes and heroines, of Fortress Maximus, Autobot City … of an Earth city he could not name, one after the other. The statues were also of honored warriors, and there was a perfect model of the Ark itself.

Spectrum led them up a short flight of stairs and a door _whoosh_ed open to showcase a rather plush office. The sight of more memorabilia was too much for Optimus to bear. "Just who exactly are you?" Primal demanded, his patience snapped. The others merely gawped and gaped, astonished.

Spectrum smiled and turned around, his wings rising and falling above his shoulders. "Not a Maximal, that's for sure." He lifted one sleek brown hand and waved it over his left shoulder; the air shimmered and bent upon itself to reveal the face of Primus: the symbol of the Autobots. "As I told you, I am Spectrum, but I am also an Autobot. Surely you were taught that many of us were reformatted?"

Of them all, only Rattrap had the gall to sneer, "So? How come we never see any of you?"

"You do," Spectrum replied smoothly. "We just don't tell you. Many of us wear the Maximal symbol, but it is but an illusion. At the cores of our sparks, we are still Autobots. Smaller, yes, but the spirit remains the same."

Optimus glanced at Rattrap before he could fire his mouth off once more. "Then this display …" he gestured around to incorporate the model of the Ark, of the holograms of Cybertron's greatest heroes, "… is not a homage? You were in the Great War?"

Spectrum grinned. "Of course it is in homage. I do this to honor my parents, as well as their comrades who fought so bravely to win Cybertron's freedom." He paused, watching their expressions turn from surprise to utter amazement at his words. "And no, I did not fight in the war; I was born not long after, however."

It was Optimus who asked the question that was on everyone's minds. "Parents?"

"Yes. My father was the one who both spearheaded and sponsored the spark-fusion program after the shut-down of Vector Sigma, before the construction of the Matrix. I was one of the first created through the process."

Spark-fusion; it was not a concept they were too familiar with, but had definitely heard of. Instead of going to the Maximal Matrix of Creation for a protoform, a slight sampling of two Transformer sparks were extracted and melded into a new spark, a unique soul. This was then implanted into a blank body; however, the mental gender of the Transformer could not be chosen, thought the body could. Expensive, very much so; only the richest of Maximals could afford the luxury.

Cheetor stepped forward, unable to take his optics off the holos on the wall. "Then … you're related to one of these Autobots?"

"Of a sorts," Spectrum replied cryptically. He stepped back towards his desk and pressed a small button among the many there. "My parents aren't on the wall. It wouldn't do for business if their identity was known to everyone who passes through. But, I suppose you should meet them for yourselves."

Beyond, a panel in the wall slid open. Spectrum stood by his desk, his hands linked respectfully behind his back. "Captain Optimus Primal, Rhinox, Rattrap, Cheetor, Silverbolt and BlackArachnia, I am pleased to introduce my parents, Counter-Intelligence Officer Mirage and Communications Specialist Solarflare of the Towers."


	3. We Should've Stayed on Earth

**Chapter Two**

_Worldly renown is naught but a breath of wind, which now comes this way and now comes that, and changes name because it changes quarter.  
—Dante, Purgatory (Canto XI, line 100)_

The taller mech had his arm looped around the waist of the lithe femme; they stepped forward together, optics sweeping over the motley crew. Much remained of their original forms, though everything had been downsized to conserve Energon. Mirage still bore the outward appearance of a Formula-1 racecar and Solarflare looked as fiercely avian as she had when she stood over fourteen feet tall, though feathered in grey and black and white. But there was a roundness, a sleekness that their old bodies hadn't possessed. With them standing next to Spectrum, it was so easy to see the "resemblance". All three bore the symbol of the Autobots upon their bodies: Mirage and Solarflare upon their chests, whereas their son had his on his shoulders.

"Welcome home, Captain Optimus," Mirage said. The former spy had a deep, resonate voice – and cultured. "Indeed, it seems that my son was correct when he told us that you had undergone intense change." The blue and white mech slipped his arm from around his bondmate's waist and walked over to stand at Primal's feet, looking up – and up – into his optics. "And it seems that the names aren't the only things you and Prime have in common."

Optimus coughed self-consciously. It had been one thing to name himself after the great Autobot leader, it was another to be standing before two of his best warriors and have them speak it. Who really knew if Optimus Prime still functioned? After the Great War, the Autobots had slipped into quiet obscurity. Yet, here two stood, completely vibrant. "Yes, well."

Solarflare smiled. "Raj," she chastised gently, walking up to each one of them and shaking their hands. "The Council had given you up for lost," she said, completing her circuit. "We followed events as closely as we could, without seeming to pry. They don't like it when we stick our noses into their business." A gleaming golden optic winked. "Us old geezers have to stay in retirement, you know."

Was it Primal's imagination, or did their chests puff out in subtle pride at Solarflare's comments? That the femme warrior had deemed them worthy enough to be noticed? To be cared about? Well, all except Rattrap, who seemed to have found his vocalizer. "We-el, pardon me yer Ladyship, but as much as I love to reminisce, we can't stay. Y'see, we have to take Purple-Face to the Elders."

Solarflare's large golden optics did not blink. "You don't trust us." Her wings rustled slightly, softly.

Optimus flexed his joints and laid a restraining paw on Rattrap's shoulder. "It's not that," BlackArachnia began, "but you don't understand ... "

"We understand perfectly," Mirage interrupted, leaning up against the wall and earning a poisonous glare from the Transmetal femme. "But ever since Spectrum sent word to us about your return, we've been uneasy." He did not look at the grey femme, but Solarflare took up the train of thought easily enough.

"To us, this Megatron of yours presents a threat. A dire, dire threat. To all that we accomplished. He's no longer a rogue, but a figurehead, a reminder through the power of his name and his actions, that the old ideals of the original still flit through the cortexes of Predacons and Decepticons alike."

"Which is why he should be publicly put to trial," Silverbolt argued. "Let Cybertron know that such deviations are unacceptable."

"And let him spew before the world?" Mirage snorted. "I think not."

"Catch-22, Father," Spectrum murmured from the side.

"Indeed," the Ligier replied, looking to the wall before straightening. "Look, we have a hopper waiting outside. It's obvious that you're all tired and weary; perhaps you can tell us your tale on our way back to the estate, so that we might better understand your situation." It was more of an order than a suggestion. Still. Optimus felt a band of stress tighten around his brow-ridge. He'd hoped to avoid such complications, but he was no longer in charge – these Ancestors were, and from what he recalled from history, elite though Mirage might be, he was deadly. And something about vanishing …

"May I speak with my crew?"

Solarflare smiled. "Of course." She turned around and gathered her son by the arm, drew him over to her bondmate where they simply looked at each other. Optimus withdrew to the furthest corner of the spacious office. Immediately, Rattrap began speaking.

"I say we blow this overstuffed hole, Optimus. They have their own agenda."

"Yes," Rhinox consented, "but I understand where they're coming from, too. We fought Megs and his band for three years; they fought the Decepticons for what … nine million? They don't want anything to start up again."

"Well," stated BlackArachnia, her own gold-red talons clicking together as she mimed cutting off the white-blue Ligier's head, "from what I can see, it's just the three of them. What's holding us from blowing out of here? I can set a bomb off and get us to the holding cell in no time."

Silverbolt was aghast. "BlackArachnia, such explosions are unnecessary. These are our Ancestors. Heroes of the Ark, for Primus' sake."

"Heroes?" she scoffed. "I don't see any heroes now. Only three slips of what they were, forced to downsize like the rest of Cybertron."

"But –"

Rattrap sniffed. "For once, the she-spider and I are in agreement."

Optimus let them bicker. His gaze was drawn many times to the portraits on the wall, to the models and statues. To the symbol of the Autobots that were blazoned in glory upon their frames. His crew had the right of it – could they really trust these Transformers? What, if like Megatron, they were operating under their own agenda? Optimus' recollection of the Great War was tilted towards Prime's heroic deeds, not his soldiers. Yes, Mirage's name was familiar for his abilities and hints of treachery … Solarflare was less-so. He only had Spectrum's admission that his "mother" was on Earth at the time.

Optimus sighed. Too many decisions!

"Sir?" Silverbolt inquired quietly, resting his fingertips on the lower leading edge of Primal's wing. "What have you to say?"

What could he say? "Who's up for a ride?" There; he committed himself. And now to see where those words led them.

"Awr, man, we shoulda stayed on Earth," Rattrap groaned, throwing up his hands in defeat. "Have your brains been scrambled by history, Boss Monkey?" He reached up as far as he could to tap Optimus on the arm. "We need to do what we planned on the ride back – bring lizard-brain to the Council so we can get back to normal."

"Think of it this way, Rattrap," Cheetor told him with his usual youthful exuberance and lack of the bigger picture, "we're with the Ancestors!"

Rattrap rolled his optics. Apparently his head had been in the stratosphere along with Primal's during the discussion. "Yeah, kid, wonderful."

* * *

Somehow, considering the money these Tower-dwellers were supposed to have, the Maximals were expecting a more fancier – newer – transport. Nondescript grey and blue, it was bulky and completely ugly; the nose seemed as if it'd been shot off and the wings had apparently seen better days. Indeed, not something one would expect from the mech who purportedly owned half of Cybertron, not to mention the spaceport. 

They boarded via an underground tunnel and ascended the craft through a cannily-concealed belly-tube. Only Mirage, Solarflare and Spectrum boarded in the conventional manner. To add to the Maximals' surprise, the two mechs slid into the pilots' seats while Solarflare sat – rather, she perched – on a seat directly behind her bondmate. Slowly, she turned to gaze at them as Mirage and Spectrum prepped the hopper for takeoff. "What – did you expect a chauffer?" A grin that emphasized her sharp cheeks split her face. "Are you comfortable, Captain?"

Due to his size, Optimus had been regulated to the very back of the hopper. Arms and legs had to be pushed and torqued in a most painful manner in order for him to fit. "Barely," he grunted, looking at her sideways. They had considered the option of him flying along beside them on their way to the Towers, but Mirage had nixed the idea – and Optimus agreed. He looked too foreign to pass for a regular Cybertronian craft. And so, using a crowbar or two to augment physical strength, the Maximals had shoe-horned their leader into the hold.

Solarflare nodded. "I'm sorry, but we weren't aware that there had been any changes made to your forms. When Spec called us, all he said was that you were the lost Axalon crew, and that you had the rogue Predacon with you. We took what we could in order to make it on time."

"Ready for takeoff," Spectrum announced, reaching up with a taloned hand and flicking a series of switches to prime the craft. A low hum started in the belly of the hopper and resonated outwards with a jaw-rattling motion. "Strap in." But they needn't be told that. Bouncing around on the floor was something they didn't want to do. Cheetor slid in next to Rhinox, and Rattrap grabbed the one lone seat by a small portal window. Silverbolt and BlackArachnia held each other behind Spectrum, their optics wide in the face of the intense vibrations. Alone of their Maximal comrades, they had not experienced life on Cybertron; everything was so new … and raw.

"The noise'll even out once we're up," Mirage called out over the aural-shattering racket. "Until then … telepathy." He laughed; even that was rich and cultured.

By the time they were airborne and flying over the outskirts of Cybertropolis, leaving the spaceport and the industrial section behind, the noise had considerably lessened. Enough for them to have a clear thought in their heads … and to feel their limbs again. In the relative quiet, Silverbolt (who, by concensus, had the ability to tell a story better than the rest) began recounting for the three Autobots. And by that same conscensus, agreed upon in the tunnel, Silverbolt would leave out the time storm and all that had led up to it. That was something none of them wanted to tell these Autobots. Not yet, anyway – perhaps never.

Throughout the flight, their hosts remained quiet, listening, save a few interruptions for clarification. Murmurs of sympathy met the pronouncement of Tigertron, Airazor and Depth Charge's deaths; a deep frown – a nanoclick long – crossed Solarflare's face at the mention of covert agent Ravage. But it was gone before anyone noticed.

Perhaps it was Silverbolt's cadence, but he had just finished the abbreviated version when Spectrum announced that they were flying through the great gates of Cybertropolis, with its proud holographic projection of Optimus Prime standing sentinel. Mirage kept them level, staying in the cargo lane before turning off the beaten path. One that had a small scanning device sitting by the road, which beeped green as Mirage pulled the craft through. The Maximals were used to the tightness of the cities, as well as the close confines of their base; this left them poorly prepared for the estate of the Autobot spy and his communications officer mate.

"Wouldja look at it!" Cheetor exclaimed. "It's green!"

Solarflare chuckled. "Took a long time to get it like that, but yes, it is."

The Maximals leaned towards whatever available window they could get to, all save Optimus, who remained miserable in his forced yoga position. The large amount of greenery that suddenly blossomed around them – trees, lakes, ponds … animals – it was beautiful and alien at the same time; alien only due to the fact that they weren't aware such paradise existed on metallic Cybertron. It reminded them so very distinctly of Earth – as if they'd never left.

"What'd you say about going back to Earth, Rattrap?" Rhinox teased.

"Awr, shut up."

"Welcome to the Towers – or, one of them," Mirage announced with a small chuckle.

Cheetor pressed his face up against the scratched-up window. Jutting proudly up to the sky were two soaring silver minarets, bursting with grandeur from a sprawling, multi-level mansion. In the distance several self-same towers rose to match these first two, but could not quite get there. Mirage and Spectrum guided the hopper along a cobbled path to park the craft in a circle of steel; searchlights flicked on at their approach, bathing the piece of junk with golden motes.

After the craft had powered down, the weight of silence was almost choking. "You can't exactly get used to it," Solarflare noted, unbuckling herself and acknowledging the wry expressions on their faces. "But, come." Mirage and Spectrum stood up, exchanging a familial hand gesture before hopping over the small divider between cockpit and hold. The tall spy strolled up to the hatch and let it down, spilling more golden light into the hopper.

"Guests first. Spec, unlatch the bay door. I think the captain wants to get out."

"Now, please," came the muted reply.

While they debarked, there was a clang as the hopper's port hatch dropped with a resounding tinny sound. Grunts and howls echoed around the hold, but slowly and surely, Optimal Optimus was let free of his cage. It was almost comical, really, for the Maximals to see their commanding officer being rolled out, still locked in the position he had been forced to keep in the hopper.

"Hey, Boss Monkey," Rattrap sniggered. "Be glad it wasn't a ball they stuffed you in."

"Shut up, Rattrap." And Rhinox cuffed him.

The espionage agent glowered. "Y'know, this is getting' mighty old," he grumbled, rubbing his brain-patterned pate. But any more foul words were lost in the vision of silver and white that was flowing towards them on taloned feet.

"Our daughter, Illusion," Solarflare introduced before turning around to help pry Optimus' head out of his armpit.

"Welcome, all of you!" she exclaimed brightly.

Cheetor peered around. "No servants?" With such wealth, where were the serving bots, the drones, the smart-tempered butler?

Illusion dimpled in response. "None, I'm afraid. We run the estate by ourselves."

Rattrap's jaw dropped, as much from Illusion's unconscious beauty as from the revelation. "What? Awr, man, I was hoping to have an oil massage!"

"Sorry. I can offer you an Energon bath, though." She peered over their shoulders. "Uhm, it seems your captain will be a while. If you'll follow me, I'll show you inside and get you something to eat. Are your systems calibrated for organic food as well as Energon? We have plenty of both."

"Just not beans!" exclaimed Cheetor and Rattrap. Rhinox actually blushed.

"Beans?" Silverbolt queried, tilting his head with interest towards the stocky scientist.

The moment of vulnerability passed, Rhinox glowered and stumped past Illusion. "Slag you all. Let's go." The silver-white femme's brow ridge flew up into her long crest of feathers.

"I think I'll leave that alone," she murmured, half to herself. "Please, this way." And with a quick glance towards Optimus, they did indeed follow the femme into the Tower estate of Mirage and Solarflare.


	4. The New Covert Agent

**Chapter Three**

_It was evening here,  
But upon earth the very noon of night.  
—Dante, Purgatory (canto XV, l. 5)_

All things considered, it was easy enough to find the agent. He was sitting on a stool, hunched over the bar, several well-drained mugs stacked up with almost obsessive precision at his right elbow. Gunmetal thought about clearing his throat, but in this crowd – which was already eying the Tripredacus messenger hungrily – it was ill-advised. Though he wore a badge of office, all allegiances were null and void within this establishment. (Rumor had it that even Megatron dared not sack it during the Great War.)

He took a step forward and was immediately surrounded by several hulking mechs, their bodies bare of any insignia. Neutrals or stripped of their rank. "What business have you here?" one rumbled, a thin line of lubricant oozing from his grill-plate.

Gunmetal steeled himself, chest out. "Business for Tripredacus." Slag; the proclamation sounded tinny, weak.

"Take your business elsewhere," Grillface grated, lubricant splattering over Gunmetal's plating. "I don't know how you got in here, but the outside stays _out_."

There was a soft, almost gentle _caw_ from the bar. "He's looking for me, Smokeback. Let him through."

Smokeback snarled, hunching over Gunmetal so that lubricant rolled freely from his grill and onto the messenger's helm, rolled into his optics and down over his cheeks. With a final, decisive snort, the non-alliegence mech backed away and over to a smoky corner of the bar. "You have five minutes, no more," the agent continued quietly. Gunmetal paused in wiping the drool away and hiked over to the bar. "What has Tripredacus to say?"

Gathering his wits, Gunmetal reported smartly, "Sir. Covert Agent Ravage has not checked in and has been declared missing in action. Tripredacus wishes you present yourself at the space station within the hour for briefing."

The shoulders of the mech at the bar lifted with liquid precision, the inky light of the bar flashing off a purple Decepticon logo. Just as inky was the laugh that emanated from a sharp avian beak. "So. The Black Cat is dead – or as good as dead. Who could have predicted such a thing to happen? Not he, no, not Ravage." He laughed again, taloned hands clenching the crystal mug till it shattered, the silver shards scattering everywhere, and turned to face the messenger. "And now Tripredacus wants me to fill his ill-begotten paw-prints?" If Gunmetal had ever seen ancient Egyptian sarcophagi, he would have likened the Decepticon's head to a pharaoh's funerary mask: that was how it sat upon his shoulders. Vulturine, Laserbeak's head was still patterned in red, black and grey; his eyes were round, bright and touched with a sliver of madness. Two stubs of stylized wings jutted from his shoulder blades, twitching now and then.

"Yes, sir."

"Hrph. A job is as good as any." Laserbeak reached over and carefully balanced another mug of oil atop the other six, one that had surrupticiously appeared at his left elbow when the other had shattered. "Lead on, bootlicker."

Bowing and scraping as only he knew how, Gunmetal backed away from the bar as Laserbeak stood up. Titanium talons scratched furrows in the much-abused floor as the old Decepticon, now an agent of the Predacon Alliance, followed the messenger of the Council out of the bar. And the door melted into the darkness.

* * *

Laserbeak knew his place. He'd spent too long under Megatron's thumb, of Soundwave's … of Ravage's. Yes, poor, _poor_ Ravage. The elite agent – lost. How droll. He also knew that he was invaluable, for the simple reason of being a Decepticon-cum-Predacon. 

Tripredacus convened in a tight hall, each of the three governing bodies taking a seat upon red-iron thrones. Laserbeak stilled a laugh and stuffed it back into his crop: how would have Megatron reacted to see the proud, fierce Decepticons regulated to high Cybertronian space, not even allowed on the ground? All the planet would have felt his wrath, yes, it would have.

"Covert Agent Laserbeak stands before Tripredacus," Gunmetal announced before scurrying away.

"Laserbeak," Center pronounced.

"You have been told of your fellow agent's demise," followed Right smoothly. Laserbeak's beak quirked in a smirk. "Is it official, then? Ravage is terminated?"

"Covert Agent Ravage has not returned; terminated or not, we ask that you take his place." Laserbeak's head swung to pin the speaker on the left with a beady gaze.

"And what is the mission?" he whispered.

Center leaned forward. "The Maximals have returned to Cybertron – the lost ones of the Axalon."

"The ones we prevented from contacting Cybertron through the transwarp wave," Laserbeak murmured, half to himself, as one who likes to hear his own voice does.

"Yes," Right rumbled, a little perturbed at the old Decepticon's arrogance. Such he expected from a Cat – but a Bird? Pride, not overconfidence. "The very same. Secret satillite images reported that they have captured the rogue – the one who took your leader's name. He appears much changed. But that is no matter."

Center picked up the tale: "The Maximals landed at Cybertropolis Spaceport. After that, we know nothing else."

"Your objective is to ferret out the whereabouts of the rogue called Megatron and bring him to us," the one on the right finished.

Laserbeak lifted his head slightly. "Functional or not?"

"Functional," Center replied, leaning forward. "We wished him terminated, but word is spreading around this station that he is returned – that _your_ Megatron is returned. This could be the very catalyst we need to regain power from the Maximals!"

Laserbeak frowned. _His_ Megatron? Absurd! No mech on Cybertron could hold a torch to the great warlord. Fools, all of them, if they deemed it necessary to put a puppet up for racial pride. A puppet that happened to have a bomb in his tailpipe.

Center frowned, catching the slight dip of Laserbeak's head. "Agent Laserbeak. You may go." Yes, Laserbeak knew his place. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the audience hall.

"Do we trust him?" Left murmured.

"Never trust a Decepticon," Center replied, leaning back. Of course, none of them trusted each other, either.

---

Illusion generously set out some mugs of Energon, plates of ion-sticks and a few organic foods before slipping out the door. The Maximals sat at an oval table in the center of what appeared to be a family dining area. Nothing of the set-up was remotely what they were used to, made even more apparent by the photographs that were propped up on a low silverware chest on the far end. Cheetor, still high off of meeting Mirage, wandered over and picked up one of the pictures.

"Cheetor …" Optimus warned gently, looking towards the high, bright ceiling for evidence of a security system.

"Awr, look, Big Bot! It's Mirage! And in his Autobot form!" The Cat flicked the frame around to show everyone the image therein: the spy was captured from behind, at a three-quarter view angle. He was leaning against a boulder, hand lifted to the dusk-darkened sky, pointing to something high above the horizon. A human woman was perched on his shoulder, her head close to his, trying, it seemed, to follow his gesture. Cheetor flicked the photo around. "But who's the girl?"

BlackArachnia picked up another frame, a mug of Energon in the other. Her optics flicked over the image and back over to the one Cheetor held. "My guess – it's Solarflare." She turned her picture around – this one was almost mirror-image, save it had a grey-white-and-black avian femme, her wings tucked close to her back, leaning up against the white-blue Ligier.

Rattrap peered close, too close – his brow ridge bumped up against the glass until BlackArachnia snatched it away. "Nyah … you think so? Could be our host is just a ladies' man."

"I _feel_ it, vermin," she snapped, and put the picture back before stalking over to the table and sitting there with her Energon. Silverbolt shot Rattrap a feral glare and sat beside his bondmate, lifting an ion-stick as a peace offering.

Optimus could not eat; he felt like pacing, but in a room of this size, it was impossible. Cheetor looked up from picture-gazing. "You don't trust them, do you?"

Did he trust the Tower-dwellers? Doubt niggled at his cortex, but it was still too soon to commit himself to an opinion. Perhaps they shouldn't have brought Megatron – perhaps he should have ordered them to dump their cargo into the nearest sun … but then, he would have had no way of actually confirming Megatron's termination. Prime had killed Galvatron – why couldn't he have killed Megatron? Optimus paused. _Could_ he kill Megatron?

"Big Bot?"

Optimus jerked back to reality and forced a smile. "I trust them. I just don't trust our situation."

"Well, if y'ask me, we shoulda dumped old lizard-breath into the nearest black hole." Rattrap waved a banana around for emphasis. Primal blinked; was he becoming _that_ transparent? However, Rattrap hadn't suddenly become a mind-reader. "Woulda saved us all this hoo-hah. Instead of hittin' the bars, I'm sittin' stale in this overpriced castle," he continued to whine.

Optimus sighed and turned to look at the photographs. Delicately, he lifted one to stare at it: the heroes of the Ark, all lined up and smiling, waving and goofing off. And Optimus Prime standing in the middle, his masked face impossible to read, but the tilt of his head and the easy hands he rested on the shoulders of two mechs, one white-red and the other white-black, spoke volumes. _Can I do it, Prime?_ he thought. _Could I?_

They had time enough.

Hopefully.

* * *

Two hours later, Illusion came by to guide them to where they would be spending the night. Or nights, she didn't exactly elaborate. Optimus had to remain down on a lower floor, as though the ceilings were quite high, the walls were too narrow to allow his bulk and all the trappings that came with his new body. The others were quite eager to call it a night, but not Rattrap. As soon as the coast was clear, he transformed and pushed the door open, canvassing the area for evidence of movement. But Illusion was gone, and he was alone. 

_These old geezers sure know how to live,_ Rattrap thought with a touch of jealousy. He rose up on his hind legs, pausing to sniff the air. Optimus would have his tail in a blender if he found out that he was trolling the halls of their hosts unsupervised. But being the rodent he was, Rattrap had to have a look-see.

Slipping from his room was easy enough; there were no locks on their doors and no guards, not even security cameras that he could see. Either these Autobots were secure in their estate or they had technology that he'd never heard of, or seen. As he padded down the large, open hallways, Rattrap was struck with how … unCybertronian … everything was: plush rugs, curtains, murals of Earth animals or landscapes. Here and there was a hint of Cybertron as it had been before the Great War, as it was during the Second Golden Age. Nothing overtly extravagant, not like the foyer or the dining hall. Thus, he had to concede (begrudgingly) that these Autobots weren't stuffy yuppies with more money than any two Transformers should ever have … no, they were a _family_.

Still.

He had to pry; it was in his nature, whether scanned from his beastform or inherent. Thus, the giant red-silver roborat trotted soundlessly up and down, poking his overlarge nose into various closets and rooms that were conveniently left open. Many were storage facilities or spare rooms for guests. Nothing of interest there. At the end of the hall was a curving staircase, glittering silver and gold, and an elevator. Rattrap chose the stairs, lifting his muzzle and making sure that the scent he tasted in the circulated air was old enough to be safe. Putting a paw on the first step, Rattrap listened closely for any subtle mechanic whine, letting him know if the stairs were in any way wired. Nothing.

Rattrap chuckled quietly to himself. "Old softies," he muttered, grinning. And ascended the staircase with a jaunty, careful step. The moment he reached the top, his highly-tuned ears caught the vibrations from two muffled voices. Secrets to be expounded.

The metallic rat scuttled low, softly, gently, across the deep plush of the carpet, ear to the floor. He tracked the sound right to its source – a door embossed with strange black-iron birds, curving around the archway, the beak of one holding the tail of the other. With a mental giggle, Rattrap pulled a thin plug from his right ear and slipped it slowly under the door to the bedroom of Solarflare and Mirage. Sidling close to the wall, he shut his eyes and "saw" through the miniature scope:

The room was as large as he'd suspected a noble's to be, but instead of a dual recharging bed, there was something different – a large canopied structure, wreathed in crimsons, silver and white. A _bed_ – like they said humans on Earth slept in. Rattrap's hoarder's eye found jeweled neckbands, crystal chandeliers, tooled silver chairs … and Solarflare and Mirage standing together by an open window. The femme was leaning with her back against the spy, his arms around her as she rested her hands on the balcony. Rattrap increased the magnification and volume, listening … spying on the spy.

"War," he heard the grey femme breathe, shudder.

"It's a possibility," Mirage replied as quietly. "Though, I'm disappointed that peace didn't last as long as I would have hoped." He sighed. "Nine million years of war, three hundred years of peace – doesn't seem too fair to me."

"No," she agreed, pulling his arms tighter around her middle. "But, it doesn't have to end up like that, does it? We have the catalyst under lock and key."

Mirage snorted. "Not so simple, Alina." Rattrap blinked. Alina? Oh, well … "Our Maximal 'descendants' are too soft for my liking. Decepticon amnesty? They gave Prime a pat on the back, a 'job well done' and threw our hard work to the smelter. We should have destroyed them all when we had the chance, just as Prime destroyed Galvatron."

"It's like that no matter where you go," Solarflare replied gently. "Destroying everyone only makes you as good as the enemy."

Rattrap could see the subtle clenching of Mirage's fingers on her waist. The spy rumbled low in his vocalizer, then sighed. "I suppose," he conceded, though he didn't seem all that convinced to the metallic rat. "But I still don't trust what they're going to do with this imposter."

"What do you suggest?"

"Call everyone back. The Maximal Council of Elders won't do anything to prevent a Third Great War."

"Can we be sure of it?"

A low growl rumbled from Mirage's vocalizer. "I've seen it, Alina!" One of his hands came out and pounded the wall in frustration. "This … groveling. It's beneath _me_, beneath our station. They're not concerned with the past. To them, it's just something to lord over the Predacons, which I thought was asinine then, and I think it's asinine now. All I want is to spend the rest of my days with you … with the peace we won. If I have to take up my rifle again, I will. All of us will have to."

Solarflare murmured something unintelligible. "Use our obscurity to our advantage," she said at last. "Could work."

"It will," the sleek Ligier asserted.

"I'll send Spec and Lu out tomorrow with missives. I can coordinate everything from here."

Rattrap watched judiciously as the spy bent his head and kissed the hollow of her throat, his hands flickering low on her hips. "I know you don't approve, but I appreciate the effort," he whispered.

She turned in his arms. "I fought just as hard as you, Raj, and I won't let that go without a fight."

"That's my girl."

Before Rattrap's sneak-scope, the outline of the white-blue Ligier blurred until he vanished completely. Vanished, _invisible._

Slag! Just as things were getting interesting.

Rattrap hunkered down, straining to hear something, when he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and hauled upright.

"Rattrap! I cannot believe that you would violate our honored hosts' privacy!" Silverbolt lifted him higher and shook the metallic rat so that his head swayed sickeningly.

And then he was swept from Silverbolt's grip and slammed against the far wall, the point of a loaded rifle flaring out from the middle of his chest, an onyx hand clenched about his throat. Mirage's face ripped into being, the blue edge of his helm obscuring his optics.

"Sir!" Rattrap heard Silverbolt call out, but the spy would have none of it.

"We give you free reign and you figure that you will use that time to spy on me?" Mirage growled, hammering the muzzle of his slick rifle harder against the middle of Rattrap's chest. The metallic rat gulped, eyes wide and flickering back and forth. He'd been caught – _caught_! "I would have thought you would have known better," the noblemech whispered very low, "than to try your luck!"

Words froze in Rattrap's throat. He'd never seen such deathly calm in a mechanism before. Perhaps he shouldn't have tossed off those old stories about Mirage that the others had been bandying about at lunch. The slim, sleek exterior completely belayed the old Autobot strength the spy possessed. Over the Ligier's shoulder, a curve of grey appeared; where he would have thought he'd gather sympathy from Solarflare, there was none in the set of her facial features.

"My Lady." To Rattrap's left, Silverbolt genuflected. "On behalf of my comrades, I deeply apologize for this occurrence. I pledge you, this will never happen again!"

"Take him and be gone, Silverbolt," she replied quietly. Rattrap caught a glimmer of purple in the high lights of the hallway.

"Aye, Lady!" Saluting smartly, Silverbolt cautiously stepped up to the spy's side. "Sir?"

The grip on Rattrap's throat eased and he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor. Mirage tucked his rifle behind his back and turned soundlessly, fading into obscurity once more.

---

The catacombs beneath the Cybertropolis Spaceport had existed for millennia, long before the Great War and stretching into severe antiquity. It was here that the two bulky mechs brought their "guest". Bound, gagged and stuck behind three energy fields, Megatron was hooked up to a complex system that kept his energy levels at bare minimum.

"Well, isn't he a sight for dead optics," the yellow one sneered, tapping his rifle on the edge of the cell. Megatron had enough range of motion to slowly, painfully, turn his head to the side. Lava boiled up behind his optics, pure unadulterated hate. "Yeah, keep staring, ugly. I know you wanna blow my slaggin' head off, but I'll tell you this, it ain't gonna turn out pretty."

"That's because you ain't pretty no more, Sunny," the red one laughed, leaning up against the wall with careless ease, spinning his rifle around by the stock.

"Slag you," Sunstreaker snarled. "I don't know why we have to guard his sorry skidplate."

"Because Mirage asked us?"

"Slag Mirage!" the melee warrior spat, a wad of lubricant landing on Megatron's bound tailtip. "He and Flare sit all pretty in their Tower and when shit comes down, who do they call? Us."

"I don't think I have to remind you who funded your art studio, do I?" Sunstreaker's growl reverberated along the corridor, but he remained silent. Sideswipe, however, continued: "Personally, I agree we should slag him right here and now. But we'll see what they come up with."

A shadow flitted across the floor, causing the Twins to snap to attention. "You, skidwipe," Sunny snarled. "Get out of here."

The inky mech crouched low. "Message for you," came the reedy reply.

"Ain't got time for your messages," the yellow one sneered. "How the hell did you get down here, anyway? Get out!" A vicious burst of laser fire lit up a small section of the thin mech's form before he skittered out of range. "Call the security captain," Sunstreaker called over his shoulder, optics straining to see through the shadows. "Someone got through."

"We can't follow," Sideswipe told him.

"No duh, boronhead. I don't like this." Not much made Sunstreaker uneasy, but flashes of the past did. Especially if it bore hints of an old foe. And smelled like turkey.


	5. History Was Never This Fun

**Chapter Four**

_Necessity brings him here, not pleasure.  
—Dante, Canto XII, line 87_

Optimus Primal was not upset – he was furious. Unable to ascend to the top floors, he paced in the foyer, trying in vain not to hit anything valuable, which unfortunately, was everything. When Silverbolt and Rattrap descended, the only sane thought that kept him from batting the rat into the wall was the fact that this was not his home.

"How could you?" he bellowed.

Rattrap, though hanging by the scruff of his neck along Silverbolt's side, managed to look affronted. "Ease off, Donkey Kong. What'd you expect? You said yourself you didn't trust them, so I went looking around."

Primal turned, tipping over a slim vase. Only Cheetor's last-minute dive saved the precious creation; gently, reverently, the feral Cat set it back on its pedestal. "I never said I didn't trust them! It's the situation I don't care for."

Rattrap sniffed. "So? We can't leave; we can't blow Megs to Unicron. What's the point in sticking to the rules?"

The large captain took a step forward, then another, until he was face to snout with Rattrap. "Because," he began slowly, deliberately, "we are their guests. Like it or not, we owe them." Rattrap merely blinked. "And if you've forgotten, I'm still your commander. You haven't been released from duty."

Teeth glimmered in a metallic muzzle as the espionage agent grimaced, his eyes sliding to the side as the weight of the proclamation fell down upon his head. Duty, honor, the military. Slag them all.

"I want to know what he heard," BlackArachnia spoke up from behind Silverbolt, turning her face away from a spacescape.

Exasperation weighed heavily upon Optimus' shoulders. Ever since they landed, it seemed like his well-knit crew was falling apart. "BlackArachnia, that's not the point."

"It is," she insisted. "They might be our hosts, but they also owe us – explanations. And to include us in whatever schemes they're cooking up."

Squirming in Silverbolt's strong grip, Rattrap managed to lift his head high enough to nip the wolf-eagle's finger. With an exclamation of shock, Silverbolt dropped him. Rattrap landed neatly on all fours before standing up and transforming. "How dare –" But Rattrap waved him off.

"Fine. Here's what I heard: The Invisible Man and his Grey Lady are scared witless about the possibility of the Predacons rising up again because we brought Megs here. Mirage thinks the Elders won't do squat, and he wants to call some people back here to talk about it."

"But nobody knows we're back," Cheetor began.

"That doesn't matter," a smooth, cultured voice flowed from thin air. The Maximals jerked in surprised as Mirage coolly appeared, leaning up against the far wall. "When the enemy is still kicking, they'll find what they want." He looked towards Rattrap. " 'The Invisible Man', huh? Been a long time since someone called me that. Usually Sunstreaker when he was pissed at me." He chuckled, a far cry from the savage killer he'd been a moment ago.

"Who are you going to 'call'?" Rhinox queried, furtively stuffing his twin guns back into their subspace pocket.

"Friends," the spy replied succinctly. "Friends who might be able to get you back to size, Captain … that is, if you wish it so."

Optimus jerked at the suggestion. He'd half-forgotten in the heat of the moment the lie they'd told the Tower-dwellers about how he'd come to look like this. Mirage looked at him a moment, those bright sky blue optics a little too knowing, before shifting his gaze to include the group. "Anyway," he continued, "if you wish to be included, than you shall. As I stated, my home is open to you; the grounds are shielded, so if come morning, you want to go out, do so." He inclined his head before vanishing completely.

"He does that all the time, so don't be surprised," Solarflare said from the staircase leading from the foyer and into the main building. She reached out at one point and grabbed for something in mid-air; metal scraped on metal and some invisible hand ruffled the feathers on her shoulders.

"I don't like having to watch what I say," Rattrap scoffed.

"This is our home," she stated a little firmly, leaning up against the railing. "As I said, Raj likes to wander around, often for hours at a time. He doesn't eavesdrop," and they all felt the emphasis on the word, "and he respects boundaries. Your rooms will be safe, we've agreed upon that, but anything else is fair game."

"We understand," Optimus replied for them all. "And you have my sincerest apologies –"

She shrugged, cutting him off. "It's in the past. Forget it. Right now, suggest you all retire. We have some planning to do." She pushed off the wrought-iron railing and turned, only to flick her crest back at Cheetor.

"Solarflare."

"Yes?"

Pushing through the looks his comrades shot him, Cheetor pressed on. "Who will be coming?"

She smiled softly. "People you'd like." And she was gone, a slim grey feathered form ascending the staircase, wings and tailfeather bobbing.

Rhinox sighed. "On all of Cybertron, we had to house with spies." He shook his head in desperation.

"One spy, one communications officer," Cheetor corrected.

"Kid," Rattrap hissed, "this hero-worship's got to stop."

Things were getting out of control again. As Cheetor took a step towards Rattrap, Optimus stepped between them – rather, his foot did. "Enough. Back to your quarters. We'll discuss this in the morning." The looks flicked in his direction ranged from defeat to disgust. One by one they filed off, up the stairs and back to their rooms. Optimus watched Rattrap closely, signaling Silverbolt to make sure the metallic rat got where he was supposed to be.

Primus, why couldn't things be simple? Heavy-hearted, he stumped off to his quarters, hoping that sleep would bring serenity.

* * *

Dawn broke clean and clear through the wide bay windows that ringed Silverbolt and BlackArachnia's suite. The she-spider rose languidly, slipping from Silverbolt's protective grasp with practiced ease. She'd test this "free-reign" the Autobot spy had given them, just to see how far she could go. Towing the line did not bother her; though a Maximal through and through these days, she still retained bits of her "bad girl" persona and sardonic attitude. 

The door to the suite slid back with no sound, which had amused her when Illusion had first shown them the suite. It slid back again as she stepped out into the high-arching hallway. "Free-reign" entitled her to walk around as she pleased, and that was what she was going to do. _Act like you belong here_, she thought to herself.

The lack of sentient servants did not mean the Tower dwellers ran the estate by themselves, as Illusion had erroneously reported. As BlackArachnia strolled through the white-washed halls, she found evidence of computerized servants, such as the two floaters who were scrubbing a large stained glass window. As she passed underneath, her head turned slightly to see if they followed movement – but nothing, not even a whine that would herald the descent of a camera. Still, it wasn't enough to prove to her the complete sincerity of these Autobots.

She walked on and down into the foyer, noting other servers cleaning the floor or, _Primus_, hanging out laundry! The unCybertronian sight was enough for her to halt and watch. Two fat bubbles with pincher-like arms floated gently about the summer green lawn, shaking out brightly colored tapestries and blankets. Several jewel-bright scarves flitted bannerlike in the soft breeze that passed through.

"Like them?"

BlackArachnia jumped, the claws on her wrists flicking down as she spun on her heel. Actually, she had to look _down_. A large grey-white-black eagle stood by her feet, bright golden eyes peering up at her, the black beak twisted in a gentle smile. Quietly, Solarflare transformed and leaned on the edge of the windowsill that looked out onto the lawn. "Mirage picks them up from time to time. He gets them from traders when he goes to Earth for business." She turned and smiled again. "C'mon!"

Unable to protest, BlackArachnia found herself taken by the wrist and guided around the window and through a black-iron door. Sunlight washed over her face, taking her by complete surprise. The avian femme practically dragged her over to the clothes line; the bubblebots took notice, bowed and flitted out of the way as their mistress drew near. Solarflare eventually let go, leaving BlackArachnia to look down at her wrist and rub at the slight indentations in her armor from the femme's talons.

"Here." A soft loop of silk fell over the she-spider's head to settle around her neck. "Blue suits you; not too soft, not to loud."

Stunned, BlackArachnia's mouth moved up and down, but she couldn't seem to get the words out. Solarflare bustled around her like a denmother, fussing with the scarf before whisking it away for another, this one in crimson and gold. "My favorite," she whispered with mock conspiracy, picking up one edge, and then setting it down, only to pick it up again and rearrange the folds.

"Solarflare –"

"Mm."

"Can I ask a question?"

The Tower-dweller stopped moving and dropped the scarf she was placing around BlackArachnia's neck; a bubblebot swooped from nowhere to snatch it before it touched the ground. With a soft puff of air, it took its charge back to the gossamer-thin laundry line. "Yes. Come."

Solarflare led the spider-femme along the grounds, past ornamental bushes and trees, past a crystal waterfall with tiny turbofoxes dancing around the water's edge. A small bench sat beneath the cool shade of an Earth tree; here, Solarflare perched and looked expectantly at BlackArachnia. Hesitantly, she chewed her lip before sitting down. BlackArachnia had been prepared to battle it out with wits, but Solarflare's attitude was like a douse of cold oil. She sat beside the older femme.

"What can I tell you?"

"I want to know why you're not letting us take Megatron to the Council of Elders."

The grey femme's shoulder struts rose and fell in tandem with her sigh. "It's much like your friend Rattrap overheard. We're not sure what this … 'Megatron's' appearance at the Council will do. You have been gone three years, without word during that time. The Council had given up ever finding you all alive again and you've been officially marked as 'missing in action'. Many people were deeply shaken by this pronouncement – the investment in the Axalon as well as the large number of lives lost, both Protoform and not." She looked toward BlackArachnia, waiting for a question. The Transmetal merely blinked and Solarflare continued, "So, we come to your appearance at the spacestation. Spectrum was right in cloaking your arrival. I feel that if you had landed at the Elder's hall, there would have been too much attention for you to handle. In a crowd that size, who knows what could have happened?"

BlackArachnia frowned, seeing their reasoning. Yes, in a large crowd, who could tell if someone was a Predacon in disguise? How easy could it be to slip Megatron an Energon knife to cut himself free, or to hide during his presentation before the Maximal Elders? In his augmented size, who could stop him from rampaging? She shuddered. "Still – can you provide us an escort to the Council Hall? I'm sure with you guarding us, we can get through it without an incident."

Solarflare shook her head. "It's too late for that. I've sent Spec and Lu with missives. We'll be having company soon. We'll see what's decided then."

"By a bunch of old fogies?" she spat, reasoning gone to hell at the other femme's words. "I saw Prime–" She ground to a halt, optics flying open wide.

Shrewd, piercing golden optics were suddenly boring into her own fuchsia ones. "—in your pictures," BlackArachnia finished smoothly, or as smooth as she hoped. "He didn't look all that special."

"I'm sure," Solarflare replied shortly, and for a moment, BlackArachnia thought that she had given away the Maximals' secret. But the femme said no more, simply waiting for the other to offer up a question. But BlackArachnia didn't feel like talking anymore. She wasn't going to get anywhere, and they were stuck here until some old pieces of scrap decided their fate.

Well, she'd have to change that. Getting up, BlackArachnia left Solarflare on the bench and began walking across the acres of green grass.

* * *

Flare bit her lip. Secrets. There were too many floating around and the air was getting clogged with their compromising stories. Still. She had a call to make. Let the Maximals believe what they would. It wasn't as if she and Mirage weren't concerned or respectful of their opinions – they were, but when you fought evil for as long as they had, lost as many friends as they had, you couldn't let an imposter walk over your planet and rile up the scum. 

Her avian instincts longed to call out to the spider-femme, to make peace, but there were more pressing issues at hand. Transforming, Flare flew up and around the grounds, winging over once, twice, before rising up artificial thermals to enter one of the windows in her minaret office. Slipping back into basemode, she perched in front of her desk, booting up the comp and pulling a thin data stick from the left side of her neck. Inserting this into a port on the comp, she dialed a number – one that was not traceable and barely detectable, if you knew it existed.

"Flare," a low, husky female voice answered. Flare leaned forward, elbows on the table, crest inclining forward in respect.

"Elita." The former Autobot femme leader's upper torso appeared on the viewscreen. The background showed her own workroom.

"What can I do for you?"

As succinctly as she could, Solarflare imparted unto Elita-1 what had happened. The red and pink femme's brow ridge drew low over her cool blue optics and she frowned in concentration as the narrative went on. "And we've sent Spectrum and Illusion out, asking that all come here for a meeting," Solarflare finished.

"I can't believe this has happened. We heard rumors, bare wisps of them at that. Oh, we should have known better!"

"Is Optimus around?"

"Here, Flare."

A blue hand, one whose power and gentleness had not been diminished by the downsizing, rested on Elita-1's shoulder. The camera drew back to include the great Autobot commander, now retired by Maximal consensus. Like Mirage, Prime still retained the vestiges of his old Earth form, evident in his barrel chest and twin smokestacks on his shoulders. The light glinted off his polished windows, reflecting Flare's own face back at her. "I've been listening. We'll come. I'd like to meet this Captain Primal … if he's bold enough to take my name, I'd like to see what other mettle he possesses."

A small grin flickered across Solarflare's face. "I think he's rather nervous about meeting you, Optimus. I don't think he accounted for the fact that we still 'exist'."

"Not many do, not these days," the large Autobot agreed. For though he still possessed a face plate, Prime's facial features dipped down in sadness. Flare knew how he felt. How quickly and easily the populace of Cybertron left them in the dirt. Especially the ones with old money, once they'd been helped from the underground. _Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am,_ she thought ruefully, remembering how they'd flocked to Mirage's door when he'd begun rebuilding his fortune through the spark-fusion program. And just as easily, they left, snubbing them all. "**And you hung around with this trash?"** she remembered asking him when she's watched them run away with a few hundred thousand in borrowed credits.

That they never repaid.

The set of his face needed no words. He'd simply turned away and vanished, as he was wont to do when distressed or unhappy. Later, she'd heard the sounds of a rifle being broken into pieces, scented cleaner in the air.

"True," she concurred. "I'm going to call Prowl, Jazz and Hound. Is there anything else I need to tell you?"

"Nothing we cannot speak of later," Prime told her. He gave a little wave, and if hand gestures could be given emotions, she'd call this one forlorn. Elita smiled at her, and she in return, before the connection was cut.

---

Laserbeak wasn't surprised. The Twins were as suspicious and trigger-happy as they had been on Earth. Of course, they hadn't grown any smarter in the three hundred or so years since he'd seen them last. Unicron be praised.

The covert agent shook out the hem of his cloak, nares curling at the acrid smell that wafted up. He'd have to get rid of these, and soon, but it was too bright out and there was nothing worse than being a Decepticon-cum-Predacon in the midst of Maximals on the busiest shopping day of the week. Of course, even the market held secrets.

Laserbeak whisked himself stealthily through the stalls, rife with Maximals of all shapes and sizes – but none bearing the scent and presence of those once Autobot. This close to the spaceport, there were aliens here, even a few humans from their various colony worlds and Earth. Old habits died a hard, horrible death – sometimes not at all. The agent's beak curved downwards and his vocalizer let loose a small, soft _caw_ as he passed by two humans dressed in the outrageous garb of the ambassadorial staff. How much grinding beneath the great Maximal heel could the Predacons take? he wondered. Megatron would not have stood for this; he would have crushed them all before the emotion "terror" could have formed in that puny grey matter that passed for brains.

Megatron-cum-Galvatron, crushed beneath Prime's own heel before these very gates of Cybertropolis, once Iacon. His spark flown to Unicron. Gone, defeated. And the Decepticons leaderless, exiled, destroyed or reformatted.

"Keep hissing and I'll call the exterminators, Beaker."

Laserbeak's head snapped around. "You dare call my name in public?"

Something tan in the shadows – or it could be the paintjob – shuffled around. "Wasn't aware that it was your real name," the creature called back.

Laserbeak snarled softly and stepped towards the ingrate, out of the way of the regular crowd. "I see you managed to save your circuits – again – Swindle."

The old Combaticon smirked. "Word on the street is that Tripredacus gave you a job."

"Whatever you're selling, I'll have nothing of it."

Swindle pouted. "Not even if it's Skywarp's old powerchip rectifier?"

Laserbeak gave the motley scavenger enough of his time to allow a sniff of derision before he began walking away. Quick as a retrorat, Swindle's hand snaked out and grabbed the agent by the sleeve of his voluminous cloak. Just as quickly, Laserbeak's taloned hand dug into the Decepticon's joints; sparks hissed and flew from severed wires. Swindle bit back a cry of pain and stumbled backwards into a stack of packing crates.

Inky black and silent, Laserbeak flew over the other side of the make-shift stand. A slim Energon blade extended from each wrist and one pressed to Swindle's neck lines. "If I were you, I would not deign to try and sell scrap for authentic Decepticon parts. Ones that you know were destroyed by Unicron." Swindle gulped as Laserbeak nicked a line; a droplet, than two, oozed from the severed wire. The Condor leaned close, intimate. "They say that Megatron is back. And you know how he despises garbage pickers."

Before Swindle could utter another word, Laserbeak was gone, a shadow in the light of the market. Clutching his injured hand to his chest, Swindle heaved himself to his feet, using the toe of one leg to stuff the shards of the old data chip under his desk. What had the Decepticons come to when all the warriors were now Animals?

---

At breakfast the next morning – the Tower-dwellers partook of a strange combination of Energon and organic food, while the Maximals stuck to the Energon – Mirage told them that they would be expecting their guests soon.

"As Flare mentioned the other day, our friends should be arriving shortly."

"And what 'friends' are these?" Rhinox asked, half an ion-stick poking out of his mouth.

"Autobots, of course," the spy replied urbanely, as if there could be no other answer. And before he could utter another word, a soft chime rang in the room. Blinking, Mirage looked at Solarflare, than at Spectrum and Illusion. "Lu, go," the Ligier said, pulling a datapad from his thigh. "I should have known he'd be early. Wonder who he dragged along with him."

Cheetor could hardly believe his own audios. The heroes of the Ark – all functional and coming _here_? "Mirage – sir," he spluttered, his words flowing together in the heat of his exuberance, "can I go with Illusion?"

The noblemech lifted his head from where he was looking over the datapad with Solarflare. Primal looked uncomfortable. "Sir," he began, but Mirage cut him off with a flick of one slim black finger.

"It's okay. Illusion, will you take Cheetor to the main hall?" Smoothly, Mirage cut off Primal's next words of protest. "Captain Primal, it really is all right. His enthusiasm is understandable."

The spy's daughter had paused in her exit and turned around to listen to the exchange. Her own crest rose and she dimpled. "This way, Cheetor."

Quickly, so as not to lose time, the young Maximal jogged after the falcon-formed Autobot femme. She waited for him at the door and held it open for him.

"I – I can't thank you enough," he panted, looking down at his ragged fur; suddenly, he felt very scruffy. He was about to meet the Great War heroes! He couldn't look like this!

Illusion laughed gently and reached up, taking his hands away from where he was brushing invisible specks of dirt from his bio-mechanical pelt. "No problem. Seriously. And you look fine," she added with another one of those spark-turning smiles. She paused outside another door and rested her hand on the panel. "Cheetor, a moment." Suddenly, her face was all business. He stopped dead, wondering what he could have done this time. "My parents' friends … some won't be bothered by the attention, but you have to remember, they've lived in obscurity for a long time now. To most of Cybertron, they're long gone, their deeds fodder for the Entertainment Channel. I don't think I have to warn you not to fawn on them?"

Fawn? His spark sunk at her implications. He wasn't _that_ eager, was he? Pulling himself together, he put on the bravest face he could muster. "You can count on me, Illusion!"

"Thought so. Now, where we're going, you have to keep quiet about. We have the 'official' landing pad, and then there's this one. Father had it built a long time ago, when it became apparent that the Autobots were becoming commodities, artifacts to wonder over. He and Mother wanted their friends to visit unhindered."

She pushed open a door set flush against the wall. A large hall lit with gleaming sconces spread out before them. Cheetor coughed. "So … you've met them?"

Illusion grinned, indicating that he follow. Once they were through, she shut the panel. "Of course. I was sparked not long after Spectrum. The warriors of the Ark … well, they all keep in touch to some degree. Father and Mother run communications between here and Optimus Prime every few days."

Cheetor stopped cold, a vision of the great Autobot sitting slumped in his command chair back on ancient Earth, half his face blown away by Megatron's fury coming to the forefront of his cortex. "Will I … meet … Optimus?"

The femme could not stop smiling at him! "He's already here. He and Elita arrived last night."

Cheetor's mouth dropped, ear-buds flicking back in shock. "But – we didn't –"

"You guest in the home of Cybertron's elite spy, Cheetor. Of course you wouldn't know. There's things my parents can do that I have no clue about!" She tilted her head to the side, listening for something. Cheetor strained hard, then … a low whine of anti-gravitational generators. "The first wave is here," she announced. "Hurry!" With her sculpted wings bouncing high on her sleek back, she was off down the hall.

Ghostly blue track lights flashed along the floor molding, blinking to some obscure pattern. Cheetor kept pace with Illusion this time and they reached the end together. She grinned up at him, panting with the laughter that seemed to ring her white-silver helm.

"Cheetor, welcome to living history …" and she pounded a small grey button set at the side of the hall. Instantly, what had been a blank façade irised open to reveal a domed enclosure; the sun overhead winked, blinked, twinkled. In the center of a small landing pad sat a personal hopper. The Autobot symbol was splayed across the side of the craft, which had to be the latest model – very expensive. As Cheetor watched, the hatch was thrown up and a gangplank lowered.

Through the dim light of the interior, figures moved. Cheetor's spark clenched and he staggered backwards. Illusion touched his arm and wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

"It's okay."

Down the ramp they walked. There were five of them: one deep pine green, one garish yellow, another deepest crimson, and two that were black and white. Illusion reached around and flicked a switch – the dome flooded with light, subtly.

"Welcome, Uncles!" she called out, jogging forward.

Cheetor stopped dead, as if he'd been slapped between the optics with one of BlackArachnia's darts. _Uncles_?

The party of five and Illusion met in the middle as Cheetor hung back, ill at ease all of a sudden. He strained to identify them from what he recalled in history. Their shapes had changed, not all that much, but faintly, in order to conform with the rest of the planet's need to conserve Energon. The red and yellow mechs were the tallest, and their swaggers betrayed them: the Twins, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, the berserkers, melee-warriors, loose cannons. Cheetor gulped as the red one pinned him with a piercing blue gaze.

"Lu," he said, "who's the cat? Your new lovetoy? Your high'n'mighty creator have no problem with his mange?"

Illusion chuckled, taking him by the arm, and then the yellow one as well. "My _father_, uncle. And no, no love interest. This is Cheetor, one of the Axalon's crewmembers that we told you about."

"Father-shmather," Sideswipe scoffed, but he was grinning. But Cheetor was still reeling from the shock of Illusion's easy dismissal of him … No?

One of the black and whites, the one sporting a bright red chevron on his serene face, shook his head in a long-suffering motion. "Illusion, is Prime here?"

"Of course, Uncle Prowl. He and Elita arrived last night; they should be in the conference room. Mother and Father and the rest of the Axalon crew should be filing in about now. You're early."

_Prowl_. The strategist, the logistician. Cheetor blinked, confused. He'd perished in the great battle at Autobot City in 2005, hadn't he? _Hadn't he?_ But … the truth was there, bright as the power core of Cybertron.

"Better to be early, what with having to drag these degenerates around," Prowl replied, flicking his optics up and over Cheetor, assessing him. "And the others?"

"You're the first to arrive."

"Who else is coming?"

"Everyone."

Prowl's optics widened. "Everyone?"

Illusion shrugged. "Well, not everyone. The Aerialbots send their regrets; the Dinobots remain on Earth, but Grimlock did say that he expressed apologies that he couldn't 'join you in your mash-up'."

Behind them, the green one laughed. "Good old Grimlock. So, Lu, everyone?"

"Just about," she dimpled. "Ah, Cheetor." They stopped before the feral cat, and suddenly, he was overwhelmed. The Twins towered above all of them, downgraded in size though they were. "Cheetor, let me introduce you to Prowl, second-in-command to Optimus Prime; behind him is Jazz, Special Operations." A blue-visored mech with an insatiable grin waved jauntily.

"Hey, baby!"

Cheetor gawked. Illusion continued. "These two handsome mechs are Sunstreaker and Sideswipe." The Twins preened, the one called Sunstreaker with a hint of insanity in his cold blue optics. "And this is Hound, premiere tracker and my father's best friend."

The pine green one shouldered himself to the front and stuck out a large, well-worn hand. "Pleased to meet you, Cheetor. Great Cybertron, I look forward to hearing your story. Look at you!" There was nothing but admirable awe and a hint of jealousy in the green mech's voice, so much that Cheetor felt himself smiling back. The tracker's hand enveloped his own, gently; Cheetor felt himself returning the shake with as much enthusiasm.

"All right," Prowl said as the two broke apart. "We have time enough for stories later. Right now, I want to speak with Optimus. Gentlemen?"


	6. And They Call Us Heroes

**Chapter Five**

_The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time.  
—Dante, Purgatorio (III, 78)_

Cheetor watched them walk away, feeling decidedly ill. Illusion turned from her waving and noted the look on his face. "Are you okay? You look terrible."

"P-prowl …"

Understanding dawned clear in Illusion's river blue optics. "Oh. You were taught that he died by Megatron's hand in 2005." She sighed. "Well, yes, that's true. Prowl did die – so did Wheeljack, Brawn, Ironhide, Ratchet and Windcharger. But when we learned that Optimus had been revived through Quintesson intervention, many of us began wondering if the same technology could be applied to the Ark crew." She looked at him expectantly. "It'll be a while before the others arrive. Would you like me to tell you how while we wait?"

Cheetor looked back towards the shuttle, with its bright red Autobot symbol painted so proudly upon its burnished side. "Please. I want to know."

"All right then. Not long after Optimus returned to us, Perceptor managed to persuade the captive Quintesson to tap into the Matrix and bring back the other sparks." She paused and took a seat on a small bench built into the wall of the dome. Cheetor shuffled, hesitant, before Illusion patted the empty space beside her. "It was difficult to do, because the Quintesson spoke of temporal repercussions, of how time and space and the nature of things would be disrupted, because the dead stay dead, and that those sparks should not be brought into new bodies; rather, they should be recycled, reincarnated, as proper." A small smile flitted across her sharp-planed face. "Mom told me of how Perceptor and the Quintesson argued for days on end, even to the point of physical blows."

Cheetor's brow furrowed as he tried to imagine what that brawl might have looked like. "But he relented."

" 'It', really. We're unsure what gender the Quintesson possessed … but no matter. So, yes. For days, weeks even, Perceptor and the Quintesson worked, separating the veil between worlds to bring back the sparks of Wheeljack, Ratchet, Prowl, Brawn, Ironhide and Windcharger. Because their original bodies had been destroyed by Optimus –" She paused, looking at Cheetor. "You know this part, right?" He merely nodded, not wanting to disrupt her lovely storytelling. "Okay. So I won't go into that. Well, new bodies were built for them. As close to their original Earth altforms as possible. And that's about it."

Cheetor gaped at the mention of all of this; Illusion recited it as if the events happened just yesterday – which, for her, they almost had. Still. Quintessons. The supposed progenors of the Transformers – the ones who had enslaved them, only to be overthrown by the first Great War. He'd never seen one, not personally. A few pictures here and there in school, but the teachers tended to stay away from that side of history. "And … they're okay?"

Illusion shrugged. "Perceptor and the Quintesson warned of psychological repercussions, what with being ripped from another dimension and whatnot. But they seem to be fine. Ratchet is as gruff as ever, Prowl's as stiff as ever … though, Windcharger will stare off into space for a minute or two, and his magnetic powers were augmented after his reincarnation; but other than that …" She trailed off, nothing more to say on the subject.

The techno-organic Cheetah looked at his clawed feet for a moment or two, trying to form some sort of intelligent comment, but all he could think of were questions about the Ark warriors. He didn't want to seem like all he was capable of was hero-worship; he'd done a lot of growing up on prehistoric Earth, and he wanted to show them that. _But_, he thought, _I just look at them and I can't think of anything else. I was raised on their stories, grew up wanting to be like them._

"Do you know what's going to happen?" he asked at last, trying to sound cultured, like Mirage. And failed miserably.

Illusion shook her head so that the feathers along her brow swayed. "No." And that was it.

In due time, more shuttles landed and parked along side the first. Each one was different, but they all had one thing in common: the face of Primus displayed for all to see. More Autobots than Cheetor could name descended, greeted Illusion, looked at him with a mix of facial expressions, and moved on through the tunnel.

When the last warrior of the Ark, Bumblebee, had disappeared inside, Illusion rubbed a hand along her brow. "All right, we can go in now." Cheetor stood up respectfully as she passed. The white-silver femme reached up along the wall to toggle a switch when the soft whine of another anti-gravitational generator filled the air. Shock exploded across Illusion's face and she immediately punched a series of keys embedded into the wall.

"IDENTIFY!"

"_Slaggin' pansy-pants. Don't close fraggin' dome on me, Grimlock."_

"GRIMLOCK!"

"_Right. Now, gonna open dome or does me, Grimlock, have to blow a new one?"_

"Primus!" Illusion hissed through clenched teeth. She spun around and entered a new combination. "That old lizard told me he wasn't going to come! Dad's going to have his head."

Cheetor hardly thought that plausible. From what he recalled, if it came to blows, Grimlock would have had the _spy's_ head.

"Dad?" Illusion spoke low and close to a comm-unit set by the control panel.

A slight pause. "_What is it?"_

"Grimlock's here."

Unintelligible static. Then: "_Oh, for the love of Primus. He better hope he did it right this time. Flare, get another chair – a large one."_ Total comm-silence. Illusion stepped away to watch with Cheetor as the small personal craft – bare of any symbol – came to a staggering halt inches from the others. It powered down, then began rocking from side to side, a large, bulky shadow swaying within the darkened cabin. After a moment, a door slid open, a ramp descended and the Dinobot leader Grimlock stumped his way over, not caring that he trampled several rows of tulips as he deliberately avoided the marked path.

Illusion coughed. "Uncle Grimlock. You said you weren't coming."

Cheetor looked up – and up – into the optics of the Dinobot. Based on his appearance, Grimlock hadn't taken well to the upgrade: he was as chunky as ever, if only stuffed into a smaller package. There was no smoothing of his form, as he still sported the classic style he'd been designed with. Pocket Grimlock.

"Who this tabby?" the Dinobot inquired roughly, jabbing a beefy black finger into Cheetor's unprotected chest. Air whooshed from the Cat's ventilators and he staggered backwards, coughing. Brow ridge drawn down in concern, Illusion rushed up and gently lowered Grimlock's arm; her fingers could barely clamp onto his thick wrist.

"Cheetor," she explained, trying to keep his arm down as it went up again for another test of Cheetor's mettle. "Uncle, please."

Grimlock's snort of contempt blew Illusion's silver-barred crest flat against her helm. "Not like tabby's form. Remind me, Grimlock, too much of Black Cat." He peered close, red wrap-around optics piercing. "Not Decepticon in disguise?"

"Grimlock, you old antique!"

Cheetor watched as Grimlock swept Illusion aside, and despite being winded, he managed to stagger forward to steady her as she swayed from the force of the Dinobot's gesture. He turned to see the Autobot Jazz leaning up against the hall entrance, an easy, affable grin on his face. "Get your grey tail inside, man. We're about to start."

"Hrmph. Jazz. Grimlock no need escort. Coming." With slow, decisive steps, Grimlock stumped towards the white and black. As he passed, Jazz lifted a hand in query; Illusion pushed herself off Cheetor (though, not in revulsion) and tilted her head in acknowledgement. Jazz nodded and turned to follow Grimlock back through the hall.

"Well," Illusion remarked, flicking her wings out and smoothing them into some semblance of order. "I guess that's it – hopefully." She looked skywards, but only the smooth golden orb of the Cybertronian sun met her questing optics. "Let's go."

Illusion did not lead Cheetor back down the same way they'd come. Instead, she bade him follow her up a winding staircase to another level of the extensive estate house.

"You sure have a big house," he commented lamely.

She laughed. "You get used to it. It used to be smaller, but we had renovations to accommodate everyone after it was named the de-facto place for conferences."

They trudged on in silence until Illusion suddenly stopped outside a grey ornamental door with more than a few scrapes along the frame. "You wait in here. It's the antechamber, of sorts, to the main conference room. Your crewmembers will be inside; I have to go the other way. I'll see you in a bit."

Cheetor paused with his hand on the doorknob, an interesting piece of metalwork that had been formed in the shape of a turbofox. "Illusion – wait –" But she was running away, quick and light on taloned feet. Sighing, Cheetor turned the knob and joined the rest of the Maximals.

* * *

Illusion paused at the end of the hall and sighed. She could see it in his optics, an eagerness to please, as well as the beginnings of infatuation. For all his outer maturity, Cheetor was still very much innocent inside. Hopefully it wouldn't go further, and whatever they decided tonight would have them relocated.

An argument was already in progress when she entered the conference room. The wide table brimmed with Autobots, both large both small; some were shaking their fists and raising their vocalizers. _Happens every time,_ she thought ruefully, sliding around the edge and closing the door behind her. Spectrum stood in one corner, out of harm's way, and she slid down the wall to join him.

"I can't believe you left this time bomb alone in his cell!" Red Alert was roaring at the top of his vocalizer. Thin wires bulged under his malleable facial plating, giving him an apoplectic look.

"Listen, pinhead," Sunstreaker bellowed back, his middle finger waving like a standard at the ex-security director, "we moved his slaggin' ass to another, more secure, hold before we left. So don't start."

"Our hard-fought peace is hanging in the balance and you want me to take it easy? Don't be a fool, Sunstreaker."

"Oh, fuck off."

"You haven't changed!"

"In the last ten years since I've seen you? Hardly!"

"ENOUGH!" Prowl roared, swinging his fist down as an impromptu gavel. Cups and mugs of Energon bounced off the table to splatter on the floor. "Sunstreaker, might I remind you that pre-Pax Cybertronia ranks are instituted while we're in conference? Red Alert, stand down. Optimus?"

By their own assent, Optimus Prime retained his leader of the Autobots rank, thus leaving him at the head of the ovoid table. He stood up and looked over those of his old command. "Where did you put the imposter?"

"Down fifteen levels, with a contingent of ten guards," Sideswipe replied swiftly, watching his brother's face return to its normal silver shade of grey. "And a panoramic security camera. I checked everything personally. If he's to get out of there, he needs to walk through walls – and he can't." A feral grin stretched across the old Lamborghini's cherubic face.

Prowl groaned, Red moaned and Optimus passed a hand over his face plate. "Since that part of the problem has been taken care of, perhaps Flare and Mirage can enlighten us about their guests?"

To Optimus' right, seated with Windcharger to her left and Mirage to her right, Solarflare stood up. "The survey ship Axalon was launched three years ago; from what they told us, the Predacon vessel Darkside engaged them in combat and they spun into a wormhole, one that dropped them on prehistoric Earth." With all optics focused on her, Solarflare recounted the tale that had been fed to them on their way to the estate.

"And when they told you this," Perceptor inquired after she'd finished "was there any indication that it had been fabricated?"

"No. They are sincere, and the looks on their faces, as well as the set of their bodies tell me that it is entirely true."

"Mirage?" Optimus indicated.

The spy rose along side his bondmate. "I question the fact that they told us the whole tale. However, from what they did tell, I agree with Flare." He sat back down.

Wheeljack leaned an elbow on the table, his facial lights blinking as he spoke. "Well, if you both think they're telling the truth, even though they left some things out, I see no reason to question them about it."

"We'll see," Prime replied. "Flare, in the two short days they've been with you, what else have you learned?"

She shrugged. "They want to take this 'Megatron'—" And there were growls and frowns all around the oval table. "—back to the Maximal Council of Elders, to stand trial."

"Then why are they still here?" Tracks inquired urbanely.

Trailbreaker leaned over. "Would you like to see someone called Megatron being put on trial on all the news vids?"

Tracks blinked. "No – but what does a public trial have to do with it?"

"The Preds, man," Jazz told him. "It'd rile up the Preds." He looked towards Mirage for confirmation. The spy nodded assent.

"So no one knows about this, then, that's it?" Prowl asked.

"No one," Mirage confirmed.

"At least you hope," Red Alert griped.

The spy turned his head slowly. "True." He shrugged. "They were out in public space for a while before Spectrum cloaked them. I wouldn't doubt that the Predacons have a few illegal satellites bouncing around out there. Given that, we can conclude that someone on the other side knows."

"Great," Red sighed, turning his head away.

Bumblebee tapped the tabletop reflectively. "And they called us heroes," he murmured forlornly.

Heads turned. "What do you mean?" Ratchet grumbled.

The yellow ex-Minibot rotated his shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. "I mean, how heroic are we when the Preds are still out there?"

"That's annihilation, Bumblebee," Optimus replied quietly. "And as Autobots, we don't stand for that."

Along the right side of the ovoid, Solarflare looked at Mirage out of the corner of one optic. He twitched one finger along her thigh in reply.

"We're hardly Autobots – or heroes, not anymore," Brawn sniffed. "Look at us, meeting in secret, living in secret. We win for this damned planet and they shove us off in favor of the Maximals."

"Well, we're doing them a favor, aren't we?" Windcharger murmured, resting his hands on the tabletop. "In a sense, we're keeping evil from rising up again." He looked along both sides of the room. "I vote we destroy this troublemaker and get back to obscurity."

"You'd like to live like that, wouldn't you?" Sunstreaker hissed.

Prowl shot the yellow melee warrior a LOOK. "Perhaps we should bring in the Axalon crew, Optimus. Then decide."

The tall red-white-blue once-supreme commander of the Autobots looked towards Spectrum and Illusion standing respectfully in the corner. At his barest of nods, they moved towards the back of the chamber. Illusion readied the six chairs that had been left empty at the far end of the ovoid table; Spectrum laid his hand on the silver door bar and opened it a crack, just enough to poke his head on through. He said something to the Maximals within the antechamber and stepped back, pulling the door wide.

The Autobots of the Ark scraped back in their seats, pushing up on the table and leaning forward to get a good look at these "descendants". At the other end of the table, Optimus Prime remained standing, his arms folded, chin tucked against his chest, watching judiciously from under his helm. Elita-1 exchanged a short glance with Solarflare before standing up beside her bondmate.

No one came forth. Spectrum looked ahead, then back inside. He coughed and ducked into the antechamber. Slipping out once more, the Autobot turned his head and announced: "Warriors of the Ark, I am pleased to present the crew of the survey ship Axalon: Rattrap, Cheetor, Silverbolt –"

"SILVERBOLT!" Cosmos exclaimed, only to be shushed by Smokescreen and Tracks. The former Minibot gripped the table and hopped up on his chair to see better.

"—BlackArachnia, Rhinox … and the captain of the Axalon, Optimus … Primal."

* * *

It was like walking through the National Cybertronian History Museum. There were the Twins, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe; over there were the Protectobots; Jazz, Prowl, Ironhide … Ratchet, Wheeljack, Perceptor …

"Ohhh, man," Rattrap muttered, his hands clenched tight to his sides, fingers reflexively reaching for his firearm in case things got ugly. But they'd been stripped of weaponry, which was now sitting in a safe somewhere on this outrageously large plantation. "Wouldja look at 'em, Rhinox?"

Through teeth that were clamped tight, the scientist could only reply, "That's a lot."

They filed out and towards the chairs Illusion was indicating to them. All but one.

Optimus Primal stood rooted to the spot, back behind the doors. He knew who was out there – Optimus Prime, his hero, his … The very Optimus Prime who they saved during the timestorm, the one whose spark he had carried for a short time.

Spectrum stuck his head around the corner. "Captain Primal," he hissed. "Your presence is necessary."

A thousand and one emotions rolled through his core. Could he face Optimus Prime?

"Captain." Spectrum was growing impatient, and Primal had no doubt that if worse came to worse, the son of the spy would get behind him and shove him through the doors. And that would have been more humiliating than facing Optimus Prime.

Slowly, but surely, Primal eased himself out from behind the doors. At the sight of his large gorilla's foot peeking about the bend, the whispers started. There was a short rap on a table and conversation instantly ceased.

"Welcome, Maximals," a deep, resonant voice began. Something stirred in Primal's spark at those words. Something lifted within him, threw all his cares away, let him know that everything was going to be all right. He lifted his head and stared across the room at Optimus Prime.

For the second time, the two Optimuses' optics locked. But this time, Prime did not fall back into stasis. No, this was a completely different Optimus Prime: one who had awoken in 1984, who had battled Megatron for over 20 years after that, who had lost his life and then was reborn to finally destroy Galvatron at the gates of Iacon.

_Optimus Prime._

"Welcome, Captain Primal."


	7. Enter the Dragon

**Chapter Six**

_"Wisdom supreme! how dost thou show thine art  
In heaven and earth and in the pit profound,  
And of thy justice make exact the chart!"  
—Dante, Inferno, Canto XIX, Lines 10-12_

Primal could not seem to exhale; his breath seemed trapped in his ventilators, and his system seized. Spectrum reached up and placed a careful hand on the highest point of Primal's body he could reach – his upper thigh. Shocked into movement, Optimus Primal shuffled forward and took his seat next to Cheetor. Though built to his size, the sheer weight of his frame caused the chair to tremble. Surprisingly, though, it held.

"What fool is this?" a great grey hulk of a mech thundered from the corner. "Why captain look like Optimus Prime? And _named_ like Optimus Prime?"

"Grimlock," Optimus Prime cautioned, lifting a blue hand to stave off any more comments. "At ease. Names are not the matter to be discussed tonight."

"Me, Grimlock, think this is stupidity." And the Dinobot turned his head from the proceedings. Prime's shoulders heaved and he shook his head slowly.

"As I said, welcome. Solarflare and Mirage have told us your tale, but we would like to hear it from you, if you could."

Without being asked, Silverbolt stood. "Sir," he began with a deep bow. "Let me say that standing before you is an extreme pleasure. I have heard countless tales of your bravery and heroism –"

"Enough skid-kissing," Sunstreaker rumbled. "Get on with it."

Silverbolt blinked, taken aback by the sheer abrasiveness of the Autobot melee warrior. "Uh, well, yes." And launched into a perfect rendition of the story they'd told the Tower-dwellers.

Primal watched the reactions of the other Autobots in order to keep his mind off of Optimus Prime. He was sure that while Prime had his attention directed at Silverbolt, he was also watching _Primal_. There were far too many for him to put names to faces; some were frowning, others had their chins in their palms, some took notes, and some snored. There was one silver-colored Autobot with a chevron similar to Prowl's whose face was going through the most peculiar contortions as Silverbolt described Megatron. Quickly, Primal turned away lest he be caught staring; instead, he focused his optics on the other side of the room. He noticed that Solarflare had her head tilted towards a red-grey mech, while Mirage's frown was deeper than the rest. The green Autobot known as Hound was tapping his forefinger on the table, a burnt-yellow and green mech scowled, and a mainly-white mech with lightbulbs for ears was hunched over.

After a time, Prowl leaned forward, lacing his fingers over his datapad. "You profess a desire to have this 'Megatron' taken before the Maximal Council of Elders," he stated after Silverbolt's recitation was through and the Fuzor had taken his seat. "While noble, I must ask 'why'?"

It took a moment for Primal to realize his crew was looking at him to reply. "Because I believe in justice," he said at last. "I believe that crimes no matter how heinous deserve their day in court."

Along the left side of the ovoid, someone cut back a loud sob. Optimus Prime's head swung around. "Bluestreak? Have you something to add?"

Bluestreak's cry echoed around the chamber and the table shook as his fists slammed down upon it. "All six of you are completely crazy if you think this is going to work. I lost everything to Megatron, and now you want some imposter to stand up before the world and rant? I won't stand for it! Mirage!" Voice rising in pitch, the ex-gunner jabbed a finger at the spy. "You know what I mean, don't you? You lost everything, too! Tell them; convince them to kill this maniac before the Predacons can start the war again." Legs trembling, Bluestreak gripped the table for support.

Mirage blinked and slowly slid his chair back. He looked at Bluestreak, who could barely contain the trembling of his lower lip; twin streams of fluid flowed unchecked down his silver cheeks. "I did lose everything," he began softly. "But what I lost cannot be compared against what Bluestreak went through. I was fortunate enough to find a pillar of strength to lean against," and he looked towards Solarflare. She smiled softly and reached out to touch his arm with gentle black fingers. "Still. I do not want to lose anything again. I worked too hard, spent too many hours, to give everything up." His hands clenched tight against his sides. "I have a _family_, dammit, and no one named Megatron is going to take that from me again."

Rattrap, Cheetor and Rhinox looked at each other, then up at Primal. "I think we touched a nerve," the metallic rat muttered.

"Indeed," Rhinox agreed.

"But – but – you won the war," Cheetor interjected, confusion clear on his face. "Maximals have control over Cybertron – what harm can putting Megatron on trial cause?"

"Look here, kid," the rust-red warrior named Ironhide rumbled, "t'you, this whole shebang is ancient history. Not t'us. I got my fraggin' head blown off by Megatron. Y'think I want that t'happen again?"

Cheetor's shoulders slumped, crushed by the old warrior's remarks. "I –"

"Save it, Spots," Rattrap snarled. "It's obvious t'me that they don't give a flying slag about what we think. They're gonna scrap old Megs whether we want it to happen or not."

Rhinox raised a hand. "We lost comrades, too," but his words of comparison were drowned out. Angry shouts and curses flew in every direction at Rattrap's words. Through it all, Optimus Prime sat and listened. Until Sunstreaker got a little too carried away – he had to be restrained from climbing the table to get to Rattrap. Rising, the red-white-blue ex-commander lifted both hands; Prowl pounded the surface before him until a flurry of cracks split the fine exterior.

"Enough. Enough, all of you," Optimus began. "I think we've had enough talk for today. I suggest we retire to the quarters Mirage and Solarflare have so generously provided for us and mull things over until tomorrow."

"But I'm just getting started, Prime," Sunstreaker whined, running one hand up the "bicep" of his other arm, a murderous gleam in his optics.

"_Sunstreaker._"

The yellow melee warrior snarled and snorted, but relented. Even after all this time, Prime commanded complete attention. Slowly, the Autobots of the Ark stood and began filing out the door. "Prowl," Optimus Prime called out. "Jazz, Ratchet, Ironhide, Mirage, Flare, Grimlock, remain a while." He turned his head slowly and looked at Primal, tucking his chin before swiveling to help Elita-1 from her seat.

Rattrap rubbed his knuckles. "So, what do we do now?"

Silent and stealthy, Spectrum appeared at their end of the table. "You're free to go," he announced.

Rattrap rolled his eyes. "Oh, that's just peachy. Thanks a lot."

Spectrum shrugged. "I never said any of this would be easy. Just … roll with it. They're old, and some are cranky, but believe me, they know what they're talking about."

Rhinox snorted. "They sure have a delightful way of showing it."

"As we've tried to tell you, they're fearful of their hard work going down the tubes." Spectrum heaved a sigh and shook his crested head. "Uhg. Anyway, they'll probably stay on the floor above yours; if your paths happen to cross, I suggest you don't discuss matters until tomorrow."

Primal remained seated, staring across the long ovoid at the place Prime had been standing. "Thank you, Spectrum. We appreciate your generosity."

"Yeah, right," Rattrap sniffed. "Generous captivity."

"Oh, be quiet, Big R," Cheetor snapped – and stepped back as Rattrap's finger flew up to prod him in the nose.

"Listen, Tabby. I've about had enough with the 'shut up Rattraps', capiche? I'm in a place I don't wanna be, and I'd like it if everyone just stopped houndin' me!"

Spectrum merely blinked as Cheetor took a step backwards, then another, before retreating to Primal's side. "Again, good evening." In a flurry of brown-barred feathers, he strolled to the arching door.

Quiet throughout the debate, BlackArachnia lifted her head and called to the young Autobot. "Do you have a library?" There was no masking the surprise on Spectrum's face as he turned back around.

Silverbolt blinked. "Are you all right, beloved? You said nothing during the proceedings."

She waved him off. "I'm fine, Jojo. So, do you, Spectrum?"

"Of course," the brown Autobot assured her. "I'll take you there, if you like."

"I'm her guardian, _I'll_ take her," the wolf-eagle announced, sticking out his chest proudly.

Spectrum eyed him with a mixture of pity and annoyance. "I'm not interested in your wife, if that's what you're implying," he stated firmly.

It was rather remarkable to watch Silverbolt deflate. His ears went back, chest and wings dropped. "I – wife?"

"Earth-term, forgive me," Spectrum replied tersely. "Bondmate. Anyway, I've got to be getting back to the spaceport. If you want to come, BlackArachnia, do."

Curling her hand around Silverbolt's, BlackArachnia stood on tip-toe to give him a peck on his silver-furred cheek. "I'll be fine, Bowser. I can take care of myself. Lead on, Spectrum." With a dainty wave that was easily translatable as "I'll rip his head off if necessary", BlackArachnia followed Spectrum out the door and into the hall.

* * *

Though she didn't particularly like playing hostess, Solarflare busied herself with mixing glasses of high grade for the others. Over the years, she'd forged a new identity for herself, that of a warrior and communications specialist – and after the war, she specifically told Mirage she wouldn't take the part of waitress for social functions. However, this was a different matter entirely. 

"Thank you, Flare," Prowl said as she offered the old second-in-command his glass. She smiled at him; it'd taken years for the old stiff to finally call her by her nickname. "Anyway, as no one else seems to want to be the one to start the discussion – this Captain Primal, he looks like you, Optimus."

"Figured you'd want to bring it up, man," Jazz grinned, prodding Flare in the tailfeathers playfully as she passed. He winked at Mirage and held up his glass in a mock toast. Flare hit him with a folded napkin.

Elita crossed her legs. "I chalk it up to those storms that other Silverbolt spoke of. He does think highly of you, Optimus, enough to take your name in homage. It could be that these storms, whatever they were made of, picked up on it."

"That's a good hypothesis," Ratchet murmured, "but they were there long enough, and with equipment sophisticated enough – I assume – to analyze it however minutely."

Optimus nodded. "That is something we can delve into tomorrow," he agreed, leaning back in his chair.

Prowl's optics narrowed shrewdly. "He bothers you somehow."

A low laugh bubbled out from behind the mask. "Always watching, aren't you, Prowl?" Optimus mused. "Honestly, yes, this Primal makes me uneasy." He sighed. "It's not just the similarities – that I can live with – but the feeling I get from looking at him."

"Such as?" Elita pursued.

"As if I've seen him before."

The wall creaked as Grimlock leaned up against it. "Grimlock make this known at beginning. Still stupid Autobots refuse to listen."

"I'm listening now, Grimlock," Prime returned quietly.

Silence. The large Dinobot's optics blinked behind his red visor. "Hrmph. Well, since you no want to hear Grimlock out in beginning, Grimlock remain tight-mouthed. Me, Grimlock, speak at next meeting."

"Suit yerself, you ol' rustbucket," Ironhide muttered, then looked at his hands. "Mebbe y'_did_ see him, Prime."

Flare finished her waitress duties and took up a perch on Mirage's lap. "He's right. They did say it was _prehistoric_ Earth."

Ratchet rubbed his chin. "Wait, _wait_. You're implying that they were there at the time we were in stasis?"

"Interesting," Prowl mused. "It's a possibility. Where else would they have gotten a shuttle?" He turned towards Mirage and Flare. "Do you still have it?"

"Yes. In a bunker at the port," Mirage replied. "I can have Spec send some holos over tomorrow morning."

"If this is true, why didn't they tell us?" Jazz asked.

Prowl looked at him. "Would you tell someone that you went back in time and possibly messed with history?"

Jazz's brow ridge furrowed. "No."

"Exactly."

Elita frowned. "So, how do we get them to tell us the truth? We can't exactly open the meeting with an accusation. That'll only push them further from us."

"As if they aren't already," Mirage groused. "Look, it's obvious to me that we'll never reach a consensus with them. I thought this conference would make them see our side, but the more I watch them, and the more they say, they're bound and determined to blow everything."

"We both think we're right, Raj," Flare murmured.

Optimus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Retirement and obscurity were bad enough, but to be faced with another 9 million year war? No, no. "Tell me, my friends, what should we do?"

"Termination," Prowl answered succinctly, tapping a stylus against his chest, right where he had been hit back in 2005.

"Seconded," Ironhide echoed.

"Agreed," Jazz replied. "As much as I wish there were a better way."

"Grimlock?"

The grey Dinobot looked a little over his shoulder. "Should not have brought fool anyway. Fool twice over for that decision."

Prime nodded. "Yes, but –"

Grimlock threw his hands in the air. "I stomp good, Op-timus Prime. Let me, Grimlock, loose."

The Autobot commander lifted a hand in quiet refusal. "In time. Ratchet, Elita, Mirage, Solarflare?"

One by one, the remaining Autobots voiced their assent for termination. And as much as it pained Prime, he agreed with them – wholeheartedly. Cybertron and its people deserved far better than to have a maniac with an old name running around. An old, powerful, and frightening name. Optimus shuddered and touched his aching temples.

Ironhide laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "Prime, let's hit it for tonight."

Looking at the rust-red trooper askance, Optimus nodded slowly. Feeling as old as he was, despite the new body, he took Ironhide's proffered arm in getting up. "Goodnight, my friends." With Elita supporting him on the other side, Optimus Prime, once-leader of the Autobots, called it a night.

---

In the day and a half that he'd been chained up to an Energon regulator, Megatron had figured about a thousand different ways to get back at his captors. Various means of death included, but were not limited to, spark-extraction with miniscule scissors, smelting an inch at a time, and body-part removal – one square inch over the course of several cycles.

Never in all his functioning days had he been subjected to such indignity. While it had been bad enough being hauled back to Cybertron strapped on the hull of an Autobot shuttle – he was still spitting out asteroid particles – the two primary-colored mechs who had been put in charge of him took amusement in others' pain to a new level. First, he had been bound with energy wraps; then they tossed him head-first into a cell half his size. After they "found out" that he wasn't fitting in properly, they used their feet to stamp him into place. Leaving him there for a few hours, they figured that this punishment wasn't enough. Dragging Megatron out by his dragon tail scalp lock, they bounced him (literally) down the hall and put him in a slightly larger cell. This time, they brought an Energon regulator with them. Once implanted into his system, the regulator kept his power down to bare minimum – enough to keep normal functions, but left him in a perpetual state of exhaustion. Of course, he wasn't able to fall into recharge. The brutal mechs poked, prodded, spat and stamped at his body until he was both exhausted and aching along every neural path he possessed.

"And he calls himself 'Megatron'," the yellow one had sneered. "Old Buckethead was twice the mech this loser is."

The red one grinned. "Just goes to show you that you can have the name but not the power that goes with it."

"Wonder what would happen if I torqued the regulator to full? One second on high."

"Naw, Sunny. That'd be 'bad'."

"Bad!" the yellow one scoffed, holding his hips while he laughed. "Awr, fine. Can't give porthead here any excuse to capitalize."

But now, they were gone, and Megatron was in yet another cell. Ten Transformers garbed in shadow ringed his cell, moving into various positions every few minutes. The Maximals, it seemed, were leaving nothing to chance. Megatron could not see their faces, nor could he distinguish body type due to his optics malfunctioning in light of the lack of Energon.

This indignity, this … charade… it would be repaid, a hundred-fold! Oh, the red one had it all wrong – true, the bearer of a name might not have the power, but the name itself was all one needed. Yes, the Universe _had_ trembled at the name of Megatron … and as he had promised Primal, it would do so again!

Through slack optics, Megatron watched as the guards changed once more. Was it his imagination, or did one seem to float? With a rumbling sigh, he attributed it to another one of his indignities and began playing back one of his favorite fantasies.

"_So, tell me, was it you who destroyed Ravage?"_

Megatron looked up, annoyed that he had been broken away from twisting Primal's head off. Something inky and black seemed to hover at the edge of his peripheral vision; no matter which way he turned his head, there it stayed. A ghost, of sorts.

"_Did you destroy the Black Cat?"_ the spectre insisted.

" 'The Black Cat'?" Megatron mused in a breathless whisper. He paused a moment to collect his energy; it seemed this regulator drained him for every motion or movement, no matter how small. "How … droll … yes. No, no, I did not … kill … the … agent."

The black-garbed guards shuffled. "Call topside," someone said. "The prisoner is speaking to himself."

"_Unnecessary."_

From the corner of his optic, Megatron watched as an inky stain, darker than the cloths the guards had draped over their metallic forms, spread like fog over a cold pond. One by one, they stiffened and topped to the ground, legs jerking in some crazed neural response. Only one remained upright; this one was shorter than the rest and seemed to have a hump in the middle of its back. Twin golden orbs flickered in the shadow of its voluminous cowl.

"Simpering fools," came the vocalized words, followed by an equally dark _caw_. "Nothing has been accomplished when one Decepticon can overtake ten Maximals. Of course, that is how it should be, how it was."

Judiciously, Megatron watched the hooded figure flow around the downed guards. Optics narrowing shrewdly, he took in all he could of this odd benefactor.

"So," his savior continued, "you did not kill Ravage. Who did?"

"Free … me."

The robed creature turned around, lowered the cowl and revealed a condor's head upon a metallic Transformer's body.

"Laser … beak." Ah, how could he have not known? So it was more than Ravage who remained of the original Megatron's old guard. And if he was understanding the situation properly, this old Decepticon had a long-standing grudge with the non-functioning covert agent. Something to be used to his advantage, yes.

The Condor flowed over to the energy bars and looked down at Megatron's twisted form. "Out of this cage you shall be; free to do as you please – that unfortunately cannot be so. Tripredacus has a bounty on your head and it sent me to finish the job Ravage could not do."

Megatron's optics narrowed. "You … would not … kill me. I am … on Cybertron."

Laserbeak's shrug was liquid. "What does that matter? You think your name alone will gather troops to your door? Fool. You are not _Megatron_!"

_You are the fool,_ he thought. "So."

Laserbeak smirked, reaching up and prying the Energon regulator control box off the wall. "Up you get, imposter." The rush of Energon through Megatron's system nearly blacked him out. Reeling, he reached around to pull the cord out when he was suddenly drained. His head hit the rock floor with a jaw-cracking thud. "None of that. I hold the control box. You will follow me and do as I say, otherwise you'll be left to the Maximals."

Through broken teeth, Megatron hissed reluctant compliance. Laserbeak turned off the energy bars and allowed more Energon to flow through his system. Reaching down, the Condor freed Megatron's legs of one band, leaving the others to bind his thighs together so that he could only hobble at an outrageous pace. "This way," the old Decepticon indicated.

---

BlackArachnia wasn't quite sure what she was looking for – proof of some dark secret she was sure these money-guzzlers were keeping. Anything to be used as insurance in getting them out of this Neverland and on with their lives.

Spectrum had generously guided her to their library before sketching a bow and leaving to return to his duties at the spaceport. BlackArachnia had stood in the doorway before entering, completely taken aback by the volume of datatracks the Tower-dwellers kept. In a room the size of the conference hall, datapads, discs, and even _paper_ books resided in several tiers, beginning at the floor and rising to the ceiling. A small comm unit sat in the center of the white-silver room, and that's where she began. After a quick check determined that this unit was not connected to any other port in the household, she set about hacking in. How droll, she ruminated, that these people were so comfortable in their idyllic existence that they put their personal information, including tech schematics, into the database. Within a few minutes, she learned about Mirage's electro-disrupter, as well as noted Spectrum and Illusion's altmodes (a curious, almost chilling, resemblance to Silverbolt in that Spectrum appeared half-eagle and half-fox; Illusion took the form of a Gyrfalcon) and the circumstances of their "births". However, information regarding the grey femme Solarflare was almost nonexistent. And no amount of poking around the comm's innards would reveal an answer.

"**Autobot Solarflare,"** it intoned, "**joined the Ark in 1986. Function: communications. Altmode: Harpy Eagle. Weapons: lasers, wrist-mounted fire-projectiles, energy pistol. Special ability: magnified vision."**

"What are you hiding?" BlackArachnia murmured, tapping her talons against the tabletop. Could her previous prediction about the correlation between the human woman and Solarflare be true?

Frustrated with the inability of the comm unit to produce any viable results, she pushed the chair back and began strolling along the wall. To her chagrin and annoyance, most seemed to be Earth novels of various genres, including children's books. Others held Cybertronian history tracks she was quite familiar with, thus held no importance. She tried poking around some of the tracks to see if there were any encoded information, but that proved a worthless endeavor.

About ready to give in, she came across a section holding the scanned pages of old Earth news feeds. On a whim, she picked the file labeled "1986", the year Solarflare had joined the Ark. Flipping it open, the she-spider frowned, seeing that everything was written in one of the humans' languages; she then saw that there was a translator built into the track. Smirking in good humor, BlackArachnia powered it up.

After a few minutes of irreverent material (who cared if a human shuttle named _Challenger_ exploded?), the electronic voice began a most interesting article.

"**August 12, 1986. The parents and brother of Alina Michaels laid their family member to rest today at the River View Cemetery in Portland. Ms. Michaels, 26, was the lone victim of an attack by the Decepticon Ravage that left the Multnomah County Library in ruins on August 8. Two robots, Mirage and Hound, from the defending Autobot army, were the representatives of their faction at the burial."**

The article went on to describe the heroics of the Autobots, how they arrived quickly to save the building from collapsing and evacuate everyone else. There was even a quote from Optimus Prime, expressing his intense regret and guilt, and how they had come to value Alina as a friend. BlackArachnia slammed the case shut, closing off the holographic projection of the deceased, fuchsia optics gleaming. She'd seen that face before – if but in profile. It was _too_ easy to piece together – a human woman dead in the same year a femme joins the foray?

BlackArachnia slipped the record back into place, but not before downloading the information, and walked back to the comm unit. She rescanned the file pertaining to Elita-1's ragtag band of femmes, finding no reference at all. No results under "flare" – "solar", or otherwise. No flyers, no grey-white-and-blacks, either.

Yes, she had it. Hopefully. If anything, the fact that she had sensitive information about the Tower-dwellers might be enough leverage. Leaning back in the chair, the Transmetal-2 femme eyed the remaining material in the library. What else could this chamber hold? But before she could rise, a dark red pall descended upon the room; simultaneously, a claxon began blaring.

"AUTOBOTS! ASSEMBLE!"


	8. Time to Work Together

**Chapter Seven**

"_O mortal cares insensate, what small worth,  
In sooth, doth all those syllogisms fill,  
Which makes you stoop your pinions to the earth!"  
—Dante, Paradiso (XI, 1)_

Sleep would not come to Solarflare.

The grey femme found herself staring at the canopied ceiling long after Mirage had flopped over. Perhaps he could slip into recharge without guilt, but conflicting emotions kept her from reaching that state. Surely, she had voted to terminate the imposter Megatron, but that did not mean she held no remorse for the decision. A low sigh flowed past her charcaol lips; the Autobots outnumbered the Maximals – it just wasn't fair to bombast them into following their line of thought. There was enough animosity towards the new Transformers from the Autobots, particularly the Ark warriors, as it were – did they need another excuse?

_Why couldn't they have dumped this creature into a black hole?_ she thought morosely. _That would have saved us so much grief._ Then they wouldn't have to fear Predacon repercussions. The Tripredacus Council wouldn't claim him then, as that would be accepting responsibility for his actions. And they would continue to slowly stew in silence.

Flare pushed her fingertips along her brow in exasperation. As much as she upheld the Autobot cause, what was left of them? History tales on the entertainment channels, a few holidays, a museum? No one cared.

She turned her head slightly, watching the rise and fall of Mirage's sleek white back with its curve of blue from his helm. _Could you have the right of it?_ she mused, feeling uneasy. _Would it really have been better if we just committed genocide?_

There were other reasons behind Mirage's desire to be rid of the Predacons. As a noble, he disdained the ugly and the uncivilized, though it was hard to pick up on that these days. He'd "grown out" of that mindset when she'd come into his life, following all their trials and tribulations, but it was still there, and during times like this, it came through. Basically, he'd rather not have their lowly hides stinking up his beloved planet.

_Why couldn't it be easy?_ she wondered. _Why did all this have to happen in the first place?_

"Can't sleep, Little One?" Mirage had rolled over and levered himself up on one elbow; the other hand ran a gentle line about her chin.

"No."

He touched her lips. "Thinking about our guests?"

"And everything else."

"You're having second thoughts."

"Thirds, fourths, fifths … enough to make my head burn."

Mirage sighed. "You're getting too involved, Flare. This is a collective effort."

"Then why do I care so much?"

The spy's hand dropped to her torso. "Because … you're a damned mother hen." A slow, playful smile danced around his face.

"Raj."

Air from his intakes blew across her crest. "Flare. It has to be done. You know it, I know it – slag, _they_ know it. They just don't want to be the ones to do it."

The pounding in her head rose to a crescendo. "We don't _know_ that."

"Solarflare." He sat up and looked down at her. "You can rescind your vote if you want, but I bet you Sunstreaker's golden ass that everyone else feels the same as I do." With those words hanging over her, the Ligier spun about and flopped back down while she stared gape-mouthed.

Talons clenching, Flare turned her own back to him, curling her wings about her body for comfort. Could their friends be having the same kind of conversations in their rooms? What about the Maximals? What were they saying about the Autobots? She could hardly picture Optimus being so abrupt to Elita.

Lights from the other Tower homes spread throughout the sky as Solarflare stared out the balcony window, optics wet with unshed tears. _Was_ she making too much of this? Were her avian instincts acting up again? Too many questions, not enough answers. A low, soft keen pushed past her parted lips; chest heaving, she drew her legs up close to her body. _No one is innocent, not one individual is right,_ she thought. "What else can we do?" she murmured half to herself. "Everything's so damned convoluted."

There was a grunt from Mirage's side. The bed shifted as he rolled over, draping one arm over her body and resting his hand protectively upon her belly. A strange quirk of his, as she had no organic womb, not anymore. Solarflare reached down to pluck his hand off of him. "Just … leave me be, okay?" she spoke away from him. "Nothing good will come of us getting angry at each other."

A low rumble of embarrassment flowed out from the depths of his titanium chest. "I'm sorry," he whispered in her nearest audio. "I'm just so … stressed with this whole ordeal." She felt his teeth latch onto her helm, the part that curved around her jaw.

"Raj …"

"It's the only apology I can give right now," he murmured against her throat.

_Men,_ she thought, _it's a universal thing._ Still. If she could see their side, she should have no qualms about seeing his – and she had, many times over. Time would decide, and tomorrow was another day. Turning over, she reached up and hooked her talons into either side of his blue helm. "Accepted."

On the nightstand by her side, there was a small beep from their comm unit. A red bar flickered in the corner, not something to be ignored. A moment passed, then two, and the sound began rising in earnest.

"What now," Mirage grumbled, reaching over and flicking it on. Spectrum's face faded into existence from the dark space of the screen. "Spec," the spy exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "What's wrong?"

Spectrum's crest was slicked all the way back, and his arms were rigid; though they could not see where his hands were, they had no doubts that they were either clenched or gripping the table. "He's gone." There was no need to define "he".

"Primus!" Mirage roared.

"The ten guards Sunny and Sideswipe set up? Terminated." Spectrum's head lowered in utter failure. "I – don't get it!" He paused for a breath, the stress that his ventillator was evident across the digital media. "We're searching the area as I speak."

Flare shot straight up, grabbing Mirage's shoulder for leverage. "How long ago?"

"Five minutes. One of the techs noticed a subtle loop in the camera feed. By then, they were all beyond repair."

"I'll tell Optimus," Flare said, springing off the bed and bolting towards the door. Mirage heard the sounds of her feet echoing as she ran down the hallway. He leaned forward, bringing the image of his son closer.

"Any sign of where he went?"

"I'll be able to tell once I go down there." Spectrum's shoulders were shaking. "Father, I take full responsibiltiy. I should have been there myself –"

Mirage would have nothing of it. "No. There was nothing more we could have done. Someone had to have let him loose – the Twins don't make mistakes like that."

Spectrum sighed. He clearly wasn't buying his father's excuses. "Should I wait for everyone?"

Again, a shake of the Ligier's head. "We'll meet you down there. Good luck."

"You too, Father." And the connection was cut. Mirage stood up and crossed over to the balcony and leaned over the railing, looking out and down over his and Solarflare's estate. Delicate metal whined and snapped under the pressure of the Ligier's fingers. Behind him, the room grew dark red and a claxon began to blare. Mirage half-turned, feeling the Energon in his system begin to quicken. And then he heard the call:

"AUTOBOTS! ASSEMBLE!"

Long ago, Mirage would have scoffed and turned his back on the call to battle. Long ago, he would have thought such actions beneath his status. But when his very lifestyle was being threatened by another fool calling himself Megatron, this time he would step up. This time he would act before all that he'd worked towards was sent crashing around his feet. There would be no rubble through which he would have to hunt for Solarflare and Spectrum and Illusion.

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

The spy dashed towards the fireplace and grabbed his beloved hunting rifle; slinging it into its customary niche on his back, he threw the door open and began running as fast as his legs would carry him. Through the blood red radiance that lit the mansion, the symbol of Primus upon his chest seemed to pulse in time with the claxon. And for the first time in three hundred years, he felt he was doing something noble.

* * *

Rattrap stuck his head out into the hall. Everywhere there was the echo of alarm, of a hundred feet pounding in unison along the floor above. "What in all of Cybertron is going on!" 

"Are we being invaded?" Cheetor asked from the door across from him.

The metallic rat nearly had a coronary. "NO!"

A figure in silver and white came racing down the hallway, wings slick against her back. "Get to the courtyard," she shouted as she passed by. "Your Megatron's escaped."

Plaster cracked and metal snapped as Primal grabbed the frame of his door. "By Primus – no!" he gasped, unable to comprehend the fact. A second later he was bolting down the hallway, hot on Illusion's heels.

Strolling out into the corridor, Rattrap sniffed and called after him: "I told ya, Boss Monkey. I told ya that they shoulda let us take Megs!" A moment later, he was being lifted up and pinned against the wall by a most annoyed Rhinox.

"Listen up and listen good, vermin," the stocky Maximal growled, "if I hear one more whiney word from your mouth, I'll personally rip your face off and feed it to the Twins." Rattrap's head hit the wall with an emphatic reminder. "Got it?"

Caught between a rock and a rhino, all he could do was nod. "Good," Rhinox snarled, dropping him and stumping away. Rattrap landed with a thud, his beast parts rattling with vibrations that gave him a headache. Biting his lower lip, Rattrap glared at Rhinox from under his brow ridge. Who nominated him the crew punching bag? If only because he voiced his opinion and wasn't constrained by courtesy.

Cheetor was by his side, reaching down with an affable hand to help the older Maximal to his feet. With a pulse of his usual temper, Rattrap batted the proffered appendage away and rose.

"No thanks, kid. I can do this myself."

Blinking, Cheetor shrugged. "Suit yourself." And then he was off, following Rhinox and Optimus. Rattrap stood there, wondering if anything would be solved by a bunch of old farts answering an ancient battle rally. Planting his fists on his hips, he swiveled to stare at the swirling red lights that depended from the ceiling; they shook with the intensity of the large number of Autobot feet that still pounded along a floor above.

"Rattrap." Silverbolt's voice broke through his attempted concentration. The metallic rat shifted his gaze to look at the wolf-eagle. "Are you coming? We've been summoned."

"Gah. You go on, Bird-dog. I don't want to play today." He'd had enough, that's what it was.

Silverbolt's ears flicked back. "You do not mean that, do you?" He leaned forward, hands sweeping out grandly. "Megatron is on the loose. This is a disaster for Cybertron!"

Rattrap sniffed. "For them, maybe. I told ya from the minute we stepped off the shuttle, I want nothin' t'do with these relics." He turned around. "Why don'tcha find that uber-femme of yours and get on with it?"

Realization dawned on Silverbolt. He spun about, wings lifted over his shoulders. "BlackArachnia!"

Soft as a whisper and deep blue-violet in the glaring crimson warning lights, BlackArachnia dropped from the ceiling and transformed. "You called, Bowser?" She looked over her shoulder as Rattrap began retreating into the safety of his guest room. "What's with the lightshow? I've got information about our hosts that'll guarantee us an audience with the Council."

"Megatron – you did _what_?" Silverbolt spoke over himself, eyes wide, mouth agape.

"Whoa, whoa, Jojo. One thing at a time." She planted her hands on her hips. "What about Megatron?"

"You didn't hear?" Rattrap asked nonchalantly. "The Autobots lost him." Silverbolt glared at him. "We don't know what happened exactly, but Illusion said that we're all to meet in the courtyard."

She blinked. "Well, what're we waiting for? Can't have old Purpleface running around Cybertron!" The she-spider started off, but broke her lope to turn and look at Rattrap. "You coming?"

He leaned against the wall, unsure. What did he really care about the Autobots? All he'd seen of them were a bunch of old coots who were upset that their power had been taken away from him, not to mention they seemed to have pow-wows every so often to make themselves feel important again. Still, BlackArachnia had mentioned information; he wouldn't get a piece of that cheese if he remained. "Fine."

Silverbolt looked as if he'd been smacked between the ears with an Energon pole. "H-h—"

BlackArachnia waved him off. "Don't even ask. Let's just hit it."

Together, they followed a path worn into the carpet by hundreds of anxious feet. Silverbolt pushed open a gleaming white door at the end of the hall and they spilled into a flowered courtyard that was filled with Autobots. Large spotlights showered golden light from ornate poles onto the Ancestors as they moved about, seeming to be organizing themselves into ranks. Optimus Prime stood conversing with the two black-and-white mechs, Prowl and Jazz, and the green tracker, Hound, while the rust-red Irohide was making corrections in the lines. From the shoulder of Hound flickered a holographic image; as far away as they were, none of the Maximals could make out what it was exactly, save that it had to be a map.

"What are they doing?" Cheetor was murmuring to Primal as they joined the group.

The large Transmetal 2 merely shook his head. "Reliving the old days? I don't know." His hands were tight balls by his sides. "I knew that this would come to pass. No matter what we do, he always manages to get away in the end."

Rattrap could have told him that much. He leaned over to BlackArachnia. "So, what was that information?"

She blinked. "How can you think of that at a time like this?"

Taken aback, Rattrap glowered up at her. Hadn't she just professed a desire to spill? "Look, sweetheart, you're the one who said you got somethin' good. So talk."

"Fat a lot of good it's going to do now. Megs is gone."

"So I noticed."

Silverbolt sighed and leaned close so as not to be overheard. "What exactly did you find, beloved?"

The she-spider looked from one mech to the other. A rumble of exasperation rattled in her vocalizer. "Fine. Remember when they shoved us into that dining room? The holos? Well, Ratboy, I was right. Solarflare was _human_."

"That is a grave accusation, BlackArachnia," Silverbolt murmured, lifting his head slightly to canvass the milling ranks of Autobots. Standing off to the side was Solarflare, conversing with grand gestures with a boxy red mech who had a round helm.

"Ugh! It's not an accusation, Bowser." She pounded her index finger into the palm of her other hand. "I did some research. This Tower family has all their tech stats in a computer in the library; among the info listed are their date of creation and when they joined the Ark. Solarflare is the only one with no date of creation."

"So? Coulda forgotten." Rattrap shrugged. "I don't even remember the name of my creator."

BlackArachnia restrained herself from hitting him. "All that there is listed is that she joined in 1986 – two years after they woke up. That same year, a human named Alina Michaels was killed in a Decepticon raid on a library."

_Alina._ Rattrap worked hard at the name, knowing he had heard it spoken before. "Wait – _wait_. When I was up on their floor, I heard Invisi-boy call the Grey Lady 'Alina'."

The creak and crank of metal-on-metal brought the Maximals' heads up; Optimus Primal was not a happy camper. "I cannot believe what I just heard. BlackArachnia, why were you digging through their archives?"

The she-spider feigned chagrin. "We needed a backup plan, Optimus," she said at last. "I figured we could blackmail them into letting us leave with this information."

Primal sighed. "We don't _do_ that."

BlackArachnia rolled her optics and looked away. A ways off, Solarflare broke away from her chat with the red mech and was now walking in their direction. "Let me test spider-girl's theory, Optimus," Rattrap spoke up. Anything to get them out of here.

"Good, good," Solarflare was saying as she approached. "You're all out here. I'll snap Optimus out of his council and tell him." The grey femme lifted two fingers on her right hand and touched her throat. A slim mic slid out from a slot in her helm, curving around to meet at her charcoal lips. "Optimus?" She paused; across the way, the Autobot commander looked up. "They're all here." An almost unperceivable nod was thrown in their direction before Optimus Prime's head bent back down to study the map. The femme caught Primal's optic. "He wants to speak with you, now, Captain. He says you know this 'Megatron' better than the rest."

Rattrap's glance at Primal was almost imploring in nature. When he did not reply, the rat threw out a casual gesture. "So, does this mean we'll be getting our weapons back … _Alina_?"

"I –" Solarflare ground to a halt, her massive golden optics wide in that sharp-planed face. Faster than the optic could move, a purple energy pistol was levered inches from Rattrap's stricken face. "How dare you …" the grey femme hissed, wings fanning out and around her in savage display. The espionage agent discretely took a step backwards.

Faced with the business end of a loaded weapon, Rattrap raised his hands. "Hey! It's all the spider's fault –"

"Again you break our trust. Again you feel it necessary to paw through private matters!"

"Flare!" A heavy black hand descended to clamp onto the senior femme's shoulder. "Back off, bitch, right now!" Rattrap's optics went even wider as the hand holding the pistol waved from side to side as the body controlling it was roughly shaken.

"Human!" she yelled. "You want your answer? Hell yes, I was human! Killed by Ravage, reformated by the Autobots! Happy now?"

"What is going on?"

Quiet calm and reserve arrived unexpectedly in the form of Optimus Prime. Behind him, the Autobots were craning their necks and leaning out of formation to watch the spectacle. "Let her go, Sunstreaker."

"Rather not, Prime," the yellow warrior replied succinctly, attempting to pry Solarflare's digits loose from the stock of the pistol and using his other arm to pin her to his body. He winced and spat a long string of explicatives as Solarflare's foot made contact against his groin guard. With a twist, Sunstreaker flipped the pistol from her hand; it clattered harmlessly to the ground, allowing the old Lamborghini to band both her arms to her chest, using his free hand to hold her legs down at the knees.

"Mirage." Optimus Prime held his hand out to stave off the spy's angry charge. "There have been too many secrets," the Autobot commander began, looking at Primal. "However, we don't have enough time to let them air out. Captain Primal, you know this Megatron better than the rest of us. Please, come and look at a map of the spaceport. Perhaps you can give us a clue as to where he might have gone?" With that, the red-white-blue mech turned around and walked back to where Prowl, Jazz and Hound were waiting. The Autobots continued to stare until they were barked back into order by the cruiser.

"She didn't bite you, did she?" Mirage casually remarked to Sunstreaker, eying the Maximals with extreme loathing.

"Not yet." Sunstreaker huffed, and shifted his grip on the grey femme. "You sane now, Flare? No more pissed-off birdie?"

"Down, if you please." Solarflare defiantly stared up at the yellow warrior, her crest flat against her helm. Sunstreaker obliged, setting his foot down on her pistol as she reached to claim it.

"Not yet, baby."

Flare rolled her optics and crossed her arms over her feathered chest. "Care to tell us why you did what you did? You think that knowing I was human would have done something for you?" Rattrap quickly regained what face he'd lost and crossed his arms insolently. "Care to tell us why you wouldn't let us go?"

Solarflare's face turned an unusual shade of rose-tinged grey. "ENOUGH!" she thundered, a piercing avian shriek underlaying her words. "Just – shut up! What's done is done! Move on!"

Rhinox clamped a large paw over Rattrap's shoulder. "She's right; we need to move on. We have bigger issues here."

Rattrap fumed, brow ridge drawn down as he glared at the slim femme. Who did she think she was, pulling a stunt like that? "Whatever. Just keep your temper, bird-lady."

Mirage's lip curled. "Keep your mouth shut, vermin." He took Solarflare by the arm and led her back to the ranks of their comrades, the optics of the Maximals upon them as they walked away.

---

Megatron's opinion of the ancient Decepticon was being reformed as the cycles passed. After the breakout, he was quite certain that they were going to be headed towards a cloaked shuttle, perhaps a sister to the one piloted by this Condor's comrade. However, whatever plans he'd come up with to destroy the Tripredacus Council proved worthless as Laserbeak trekked further and further from the spaceport. Certainly, it didn't hurt to ask; information that could prove worth-while, whatever lies it was couched in.

"So, dear Laserbeak," he began conversationally, speaking ahead while the Condor seemingly floated behind him. "You are not taking me to the Council. I find it interesting that you and Covert Agent Ravage have such a distinct difference in loyalty."

A harsh, gutteral sound scraped from Laserbeak's vocalizer. "Mistake one," he replied, his voice both inky and rough at the same time, "to assume that all Soundwave's slaves are the same."

A self-satisfied smirk crossed Megatron's face. Again, the animosity for the terminated warrior. How could he play this? "Are you more loyal than Ravage?"

The cold, hard muzzle of an unknown gun was pressed against the small of his back. "Enough talk, imposter. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can have your audience with Tripredacus."

"There"? How attractive a notion. So there was a side-trip planned, with him coming out alive at the end. Glorious! "Lead on, then, my buck-beaked compatriot." A sickening twist of Energon to his system brought Megatron to his banded knees. Lying there on the festering ground, the draconic Predacon felt his head being hauled up by the tail-lock.

"I am no one's compatriot," Laserbeak snarled, letting Megatron's head drop. "Get up, fool. We have a ways to go."

---

Solarflare was restless. Try as she might to keep rank, her foot-tapping inevitably got the best of her. She might have been sympathetic before, even did her best to soothe Mirage after the first incident of betrayal, but when faced with her own guarded secret being circulated, all that care went out the window. She had been successful in loosing her humanity, something that any human would have been terrified to do; an Autobot through and through, that's who she was, and she particularly didn't like being reminded of how she got there. "Alina" was more of a pet name exclusively used by Mirage, and to have a Maximal bandy that information about … well, it pissed off her inner raptor.

Neither Trailbreaker, who stood to her left, nor Blaster, who was on her right, made any attempt to talk with her. They knew how she felt about such matters, thus kept their opinions to themselves. Around them, the warriors of the Ark continued to murmur between themselves, shifting glances towards the small group of Maximals, then up to the front where Prime held council with Prowl, Jazz, Hound, Ironhide, and the pretender Optimus.

"They want their weapons back," she heard Tracks mutter to Windcharger behind her.

"Gonna need them if they're going hunting with us," the old Minibot replied.

Blaster tapped Flare on the shoulder strut, making her miss Tracks' reply. She turned her head towards the source and saw Jazz leaning through the ranks, gesturing. Excusing herself around Blaster, the grey femme sidled out of line.

"Prime wants to see you," the saboteur whispered low, hands clasped behind his back.

Flare refrained from asking why; she merely nodded and made her way to the front. As they were closing in, it seemed that the small planning meeting was drawing to a conclusion. Captain Primal was nodding slowly in agreement or resignation, she couldn't be too sure.

"Solarflare," Prime said as they drew near, "come look." And she did, standing by Prowl as Prime gestured towards Hound's hologram. A line of red was blinking from the image of the spaceport and curving around the outer rim, sticking close to the industrial section. "We received word from Spectrum that he identified two sparks leaving the underground hold. He traced them for a while before reporting back." Prime tapped the air above the display. "Here is where he left off."

Flare frowned in concentration, leaning forward to get a closer look. That was her son's special skill (it cost millions) – he was able to track the pulses made by sparks for an interminable distance. "You think they're hiding out in the warehouse district?"

"Unsure," Prowl replied, "but we figured we would send the Maximals in to take up where Spectrum left off. The rest of us will start at the city limits and slowly circle inwards. Either way, we should be able to corner this imposter and his savior."

Solarflare had long given up asking "and you need me, why?" when she was pulled from the ranks. Ultimately, it either had to do with her maneuverability or her augmented sight. "And you want me to go with them."

Prime nodded. "For several reasons: one, your sight; two, your familiarity with the area."

Prowl took up the explanation, "Three, people around here are used to seeing you flying around. They wouldn't think twice about a band of animal-based Transformers roaming around if they knew you were with them."

Solarflare sighed. "I don't think that's a hot idea."

Prowl grunted. "That you'll have to put behind you, Solarflare," he said, once again the second-in-command.

_For the good of the cause,_ she thought tiredly to herself. Lifting her head, she saw Captain Primal watching her. "If it's any consolation," he began hesitantly, "I apologize heavily for the uncouth actions of my crew. I never wanted us to hold any animosity towards each other."

Flare examined her talons a moment before nodding. His sincerity was genuine; she couldn't hold anything against the captain. "It's … understandable." And it really was, no matter what her current opinion. "Your weapons are in that trunk over by the main circuit breaker for the courtyard lights, by the way." She pointed, and Primal followed her gesture.

"Thank you." He inclined his head towards Optimus. "If I might go back to my crew?"

"Do," the Autobot commander allowed. "You can go with them now, Solarflare."

_Thanks,_ she refrained from saying aloud. With Prowl's steady optic on her, she threw a smart salute and trotted along Primal's side. Almost shyly, the large Transmetal-2 turned to look at her.

"Are you sure you're all right with this?"

She shrugged. "It's an order. And I've followed Optimus Prime long enough not to question his judgment in such matters." She paused. "I want this fool stopped as much as you do."

Primal looked away, but said nothing until they reached the Maximals. Rattrap cut whatever gesture he was making at the Autobots and blinked several times at the sight of the grey femme. "What is _she_ doing here?"

Quickly, Primal outlined the plan, then sent Cheetor and Silverbolt to retrieve their weapons. Rhinox shrugged. "Sounds as good a strategy as any. They couldn't have gone that far." He glanced at Solarflare. "Do you have any idea who this other mech could be?"

She shook her head, crest flapping. "No. Spec can tell one spark from another, but unless he knows the individual, they're all anonymous."

Primal looked from one crew member to the other. "As long as we work together, we should get this done in no time."

Rattrap sniffed. "Speak for yourself, Boss Monkey. You didn't have a pistol in your face."

"Enough!" Primal snarled. "Just, _enough_, Rattrap. We need to get Megatron before anyone else finds out. That is our only goal right now, got it?"

Flare looked at the towering mech, a glimmer of new appreciation worming its way into her spark. Surely, they could work together. It would take time and more than enough arguments, but perhaps, it could be successful. "Mind if I see your beast forms?" she inquired in the silence that followed. One by one, they stared at her until Optimus Primal nodded. _Transmetal-2 spider, Transmetal rat, Trans-organic cheetah, a rhino, and a_ … she blinked when confronted with Silverbolt's form. Save for the wolf's head in place of the eagle's, the plume of feathers at the rear, and the coloration, Silverbolt looked remarkably like Spectrum's beast-form. Perhaps she could use the similarity if confronted. "Well," she began when they reverted back, "I believe I can come up with a viable explanation for all of you if we're confronted. Good for us the warehouse district is mainly abandoned."

The looks thrown her way ranged from dubious to arrogant (Rattrap). Primal drew himself up. "Well, Maximals – and Autobot – let's hit it."


	9. We Don't Want Another Megatron

**Chapter Eight**

_"Reason, thou see'st, hath all too short a wing."  
—Dante, Paradiso, Canto II, Line 57_

Spectrum was all too happy to see the familiar form of his mother winging down over the alleyway. Though he might be over three hundred years old, one was never too mature to gather strength from a parent, or to take comfort in the fact that they were here to set your mistakes aright.

Yes, Spectrum still believed that he was responsible for the unknown mech slipping into the detention center and setting the imposter Megatron free. Nothing his father could say would convince him otherwise. After cutting the connection with Mirage, Spectrum had given command to his second and made the trek across the landing strip and down into the bowels of the cells. The bodies of the guards had been cleared away for internment at the local mausoleum, their names to be inscribed on the wall of honorees with a sigil for bravery below. Spectrum had enough on his mind; the last thing he wanted to do was to explain to the grieving families the how and the why of the matter that led to termination.

Standing in the middle of the hall, he let his special sensors flow out into the room. It was at that moment he realized that Megatron had not escaped of his own methods. To him, sparks carried a certain, distinct "flavor", an imprint of the personality of the 'bot that surrounded it. Beyond his visored optics, a glowing trail of ions floated a few feet above the steel floor; one was mixed with red and purple, the other red and black; a pulse of evil was attached to each particle. Not far from this trail lay the imprint of the ten terminated warriors.

Glancing behind him, Spectrum transformed. Early in life, before the Reformatting, he'd been a triplechanger, a present he'd asked Mirage for on his one-hundredth birthday. At that time, he held Formula-1 and eagle modes, nods to the forms of his parents. Afterwards, he looked to something more unique; the beast technology was in full swing for reconnaissance and exploration, and with his mother reverting to a full-fledged Harpy Eagle, and Illusion following suit with a Gyrfalcon, the port commander was faced with a dilemma. Squander his father's gift or improve upon it? In the end, he traded his old parts for the highest price and followed his mother and sister into full beastmode – but with a twist. He chose a chimaera, a combination of red fox and Philippine Eagle – for his father's love of turbofox hunting, and for Solarflare's avian preference. Before he met the Maximal Silverbolt (did he _really_ know that there was another of the same name spinning among the clouds of Earth?), he thought it completely inimitable. Still, it was nice to be the first.

In this mode, Spectrum crawled along the halls, his head swiveling from side to side, schematics and complex equations flowing in a steady stream along the lower right-hand corner of his optics. These chambers were quite old: Mirage had said even older than the most of the Transformers on Cybertron. Perhaps they had been built as far back as the first Great War, the War of Autonomy.

The longer the distance Spectrum put between he and the main cell hold, the faster his gait became. His wings beat a soft tattoo against his flanks, itching to flare open wide. Beak gaping, the fox-eagle drew dank, fetid air through his intakes and lengthened his stride. At places, the passageway grew tight, and he was forced to rip rock and old metal plates from the sides in order to push on through. Part of him recognized how artfully the two who had passed through ahead of him had set up these obstacles. They seemed so natural, but Spectrum had an eagle's eye and a vulpine sense of smell. He knew the difference.

After an hour and a half, Spectrum pushed through to the outside. The wide Cybertronian sky pulsed above him, hardly a star visible, outshone by the tens of millions of lights that rose upwards. The son of the Towers circled back, making sure he was following the correct sparks; that fear assuaged, he sat on his haunches and pointed his beak towards the sky, sending a low, pulsating beacon he hoped the Maximals would recognize.

"_Coming,"_ his mother's familiar voice called out.

And then they were there: a strange conglomeration of animals, warped by even stranger waves on prehistoric Earth.

"What have you found?" Solarflare asked, flicking her black-barred pinions over her back.

"They've remained on foot," he explained, rising and padding around the gaggle of Maximals to point down a parallel alley. "This way. I gather a few hundred yards in that direction; any further is speculation."

Optimus Primal, wearing the face of a smooth blue gorilla, pursed his primate lips. "Are you able to join us?"

As much as Spectrum would have liked – it would have been easier for them – he could not. "No. I need to return to the port before they figure I've spelunked too far. No one outside a chosen few need to know what went on here." He sighed, once again thinking of the guards. "I have some issues to clear up with the warriors who guarded the prisoner."

Solarflare walked over to him and idly preened his neck feathers. "Lu and your father are remaining at home with Optimus and Prowl. Call them if necessary."

Spectrum's vulpine ears flicked back in embarrassment; the giant metallic rat and feral cheetah were eying him with interest. "Aye, Mother." He turned with a flick of his bushy tail.

"Good luck, everyone." And then he was off, a brown-white swatch of color against the otherwise pallid environment.

* * *

Optimus clunked forward on his knuckles, peering into the shadows that were slowly being pushed aside by daylight. How could have he been so foolish as to have considered bringing Megatron back? Perhaps he should have ordered the Predacon to be dumped in a black hole, as many of the Autobots had suggested. The act might have weighed heavily on his conscience, but that guilt was nothing compared to the guilt he now felt coiling in a tighter band around his spark. Visions of Autobots' countenances, lined with grief and the after-effects of a millennia-long war swam past his optics. All Maximals owed their very lives to their sacrifices, and he had just possibly thrown those braveries in their face. Had it not been for them … 

Primal stomped the ground with his fists, startling his crew and the avian femme. Well, he would right those wrongs; come hell or high water, he would seek Megatron out and finish this private war for good. He owed Optimus Prime and the Autobots that much.

"Done with your tribal dance, Boss-Man?" Rattrap inquired, rising up on his hind legs and planting his paws on his hips. "It's getting light out, if you didn't notice, and Megs'll have fled underground by now."

Solarflare transformed and pulled a thin datapad from a slot in her right upper thigh. "I'll check. Catch, Cheetor." The feral Cat hurriedly transformed, just in time to save the pad from plowing into the cracked steel floor.

"What is it?"

"A viewer. It's hooked up to my optics. Wait till I reach the top and I'll turn it on." With a grin, the grey femme was off, setting talons and claws into the nearest façade. The other Maximals transformed and watched her ascend, some recalling how deeply they missed Airazor. Optimus Primal was among them. While she might not have been overjoyed to be on Cybertron, having considered Earth her home, he knew that Airazor would have relished the challenge of canvassing the miles and miles of metal jungle that was this world. As Solarflare ascended, he was stricken with a vision of the falcon femme; from behind, Solarflare bore a slight resemblance to her, but not enough to confuse. Still. Megatron was part of the equation that brought Airazor and Tigertron to their deaths – twice. As he had vowed before, he would lose no more comrades.

Solarflare continued to climb as Primal went through his personal reflection; she slung one taloned foot, then the other, over the fragmented warehouse ledge. Bits and pieces of the old structure broke away and clattered to the ground, mixing with the dust below to create an unsavory miasma. Coughing, the Primal clawed the grime from his optics, blinking furiously.

"All right. Here we go," Solarflare called down. She walked over to the edge and set her hands along the rusted iron filigree that covered the perimeter, leaning forward. They gathered around Cheetor, anxious to see what magic the Tower-dweller possessed.

The datapad spluttered to life with a soft hiccup. The resulting image was slightly unsteady, as they were truly seeing through Solarflare's optics, and her head bobbed up and down as she canvassed the immediate area.

Silverbolt peered close. "To what extent must we look?" Primal had to agree – there seemed to be nothing but miles and miles of uninhabited, decrepit storage facilities, left to rot and be used as primative housing for those Transformers down on their luck. Or Predacons hiding from the authorities.

"Solarflare?" he called up.

As if she knew, she replied, "Increasing magnification."

And then they were zooming across acres and acres, past unrefined buildings, condemned and falling apart. "That's as far as I can go," she announced without turning her head. Staring up from the confines of the datapad were the walls of Cybertropolis, five miles off. They could clearly see the flashing lights of the entertainment district, the neon signs proclaiming all sorts of delights, both innocent and bawdy.

Rattrap whistled. "Now this is the kind of stuff I wish I could get if I had the dough," he muttered, a waft of appreciation underlying his slight snub.

The image shifted as Solarflare stood up on the ledge; wobbled as she fought for a steady perch. "I need to move to higher ground," she announced. "I'm not getting anything from up here." A hiss and spit from the viewer, and it went off. She leaned over the edge. "Captain?"

Primal looked up at her; surreptitiously, he felt inside a subspace pocket for the grey, black-banded feather that she had given him as a sign of her loyalty, a symbol that she would follow him as a superior for this mission. Commanding a high-ranking former Autobot, and a member of the elite, made him uncomfortable at first. Nevertheless, Solarflare had assured him that it was quite all right, and she told him in no uncertain terms that she was more than familiar with taking orders than giving any out. "No, come down," he said. "I know it would do us a world of good if we had you up there, but I don't want anyone knowing what we're up to."

"Aye, Captain." And then she was pushing herself off the ledge, feet first, grey, black-banded wings spread wide to slow her descent.

Turning, Primal looked to his increased crew. "Any suggestions?"

Silverbolt's ears pricked. "Well, I might not have Spectrum's special talent, but I have my nose."

Rhinox shrugged. "It's as good an idea as any."

Primal nodded. "Anyone else?" When none of them answered, the Transmetal-2 continued, "I agree, old friend. Well, Silverbolt, lead on. Weapons at the ready, mechs – and femmes," he added, nodding to BlackArachnia and Solarflare. Silverbolt dipped his head in acknowledgement and transformed, immediately setting his keen canine nose to the fetid ground. As they watched, he circled once, twice, before lifting his head.

"I would know that stench anywhere," he declared, and set off at a steady lope down the alleyway parallel to the current one, just as Spectrum had indicated, the Maximals and lone Autobot close on his heels.

---

_This one's cortex is never still,_ Laserbeak reflected sourly. _Perhaps I was in error of taking him by myself._ Silence on part of a captive reeked of dark disasters. This was one of the things that the Condor missed the most about the Great War – Autobots, especially those infernal Twins, were constantly talking, even if it were only insults that spewed forth. That assured him that they were not thinking of ways to escape. A fertile mind remained silent.

Laserbeak, while concerned, remained silent himself. It did him no good to talk to the imposter, lest he believe the Condor was trying to distract him from any plans he might be conjuring up. From what the old Decepticon had observed, this fool was cunning and very shrewd, almost (and Laserbeak shuddered internally at the thought) more so than the original Megatron. Yet, there was a pomposity to his personality that Megatron never possessed, and that knowledge alone assuaged part of his fear.

But only a little.

At some length, the lizard opened up his mouth. "So, tell me, Laserbeak –" He had learned not to address Laserbeak with any companionable word, "— how much farther?"

The Condor shifted his grip on the Energon regulator. Silence worked both ways. There was an exasperated sigh from the Dragon. _You know as well as I do that you'll see when we get there._ From the safety of his black cowl, Laserbeak looked around, trying to remember where the entrance was, exactly. Every alley looked like the one they had left behind. Still, he kept moving at a measured pace, eons of war honing his stealth capability.

By pure chance, a voice hailed from the shadows: "You're late."

Laserbeak grew still. Attached as he was to the regulator, the imposter had no choice but to halt as well. Experimentation early on gave him the knowledge that if he struggled or tried to pull the plug, the nodes attached to his system would alert the main computer and drain him completely.

Slowly, the Condor turned to face the source. A shadow in the corner of one of the warehouses detached itself and leaned forward. "Your silence speaks for itself, my one-time comrade," the pteropine spectre continued, making no effort to hide the superiority in his tone.

Laserbeak was glad for the anonymity the cowl provided him, but he believed that Ratbat still possessed unerring night-sight, and thus could see right through it. Though the newest of Soundwave's slaves, Ratbat never hesitated to boast about his pre-eminence; Ravage's body language might have proclaimed that self-important fact, but the Bat was quite vocal.

"Does Tripredacus know of your side-bar, my friend?" Ratbat maintained.

"You'll find no credits to be bartered in this matter," Laserbeak allowed at last. He was anxious to get on, and out of the corner of his optic, he saw that the imposter was drinking this conversation in, words and movements all. The Condor snarled under his breath; yet another lever against him.

Ratbat smiled humorlessly, gleaming white fangs flashing from underneath his bifurcated lips. "There's always money to be made." He pushed himself off the wall, the light of the new day glinting off his purple and black armor. He walked around the pretender, looking him up and down as he would a drone or servantbot hologram on the Marketing Channel. "Interesting technology. However did you come by it?"

Laserbeak's finger hovered over the control box, ready to drop the Dragon where he stood if one moan passed his lip components. To his credit, whatever that was, the false Megatron remained silent. "Your ears are large enough, Ratbat, surely you know?" Laserbeak allowed a minute smirk of satisfaction as the pteropine Decepticon's muzzle drew down in a noiseless snarl.

"Ever insolent, Laserbeak," Ratbat said at last. And as smooth as the wind, he was gone.

And Megatron merely smiled.

* * *

Time passed and the roving lights above the decrepit district fluctuated so wildly, Megatron knew that they were close to the entertainment quarter of Cybertropolis. Baring the giant plug sticking out of the center of his back, he was actually enjoying this little romp. The more he learned about the old Decepticons, the deeper his plan for Predacon domination grew. What had started out as a genocidal dance to eliminate the Maximals quickly turned into destroying all the old guard, reformatted or not, first. 

Out with the old, in with the new, yes. Sooner or later, he would have to find a way to transform this Transmetal body into something that could not be penetrated by such simple things as Energon regulators. But the question remained: before or after his domination of Tripredacus? Details, details.

"This way."

Megatron had forgotten about Laserbeak. Then again, he tended to forget about everyone besides himself. The Condor slipped past his blind spot and was in front of him – still holding that blasted control box! – before Megatron could blink.

Cunningly cut into the grimy surface of one of the crumbling buildings was a door. Laserbeak merely pushed it open – no secret knocks or codewords, he simply walked on through. A short gust of recycled air brushed past the Condor's cowl, lifting it up and away from his face, giving Megatron the first true glimpse of his captor. Needless to say, he was not impressed – if he were capable of pity, that was probably what he would be feeling. Poor fool, stuck with the head of a scavenger!

As Megatron hung back in his observance, Laserbeak lifted the control box. "Oh, do put that away," he scoffed, sweeping by the Decepticon and into the deep darkness. "I swear, you like that too much."

To his chagrin, this room was not the end-all. Optics glowing with a feral, slightly-mad light, Laserbeak led Megatron into the back, skillfully avoiding every object the Transmetal dragon managed to slam into his shins. Dust rose in great quantities, sticking fast to his olfactory equipment and coating the back of his throat. _Utter humiliation!_ Soon, every crack and joint on his beautiful body was smothered in the stuff, and the deeper they went into this insane labyrinth, the worse the smell and the amount that was thrown up.

To the front, something clanged. "Well, well. So this is the new Megatron. Rather unimpressive, don't you think?"

"Turn on that slaggin' light … light …"

The first speaker uttered a sigh of irritation. "Oh, shut up, Shrapnel."

Megatron leaned forward; what was this – a Decepticon reunion? He really should have spent some time, perhaps five minutes or so, researching the Decepticons who had followed the original Megatron to Earth; here, he was at a disadvantage, and that did not make him happy.

A click and clack later, a low-powered Earth bulb flickered on, illuminating the five creatures of history who sat in various careless states around a three-legged table. Two were Insecticons, another a dark mirror of Laserbeak; yet another might have been green and purple, but those colors had long since faded and were now covered in a permanent layer of filth. The last was propped up in the corner; an indeterminable amount of wires ran from a large generator to various points on his cracked body. This Decepticon looked as if he hadn't moved since the Autobot victory!

"About time," the mirror-Condor snapped. In its corner, the ancient and decrepit mech muttered something that was just deep static. "Quiet!" He turned back around. "So, brother, this is he? Rather taller than his warrant poster."

"Yeah," the grime-covered mech agreed. "And completely reformatted. Not something I expected to be dragged out here to see. He's nothing like Megatron, no matter how he covets the name." Standing at the edge of the cone of light, Laserbeak's frown deepened. Megatron's capacious cortex simply had a field day. If he were reading the signs correctly, the sole reason he was brought down here was to revive some prehistoric Decepticon sentiments! How droll!

In the face of Laserbeak's silence, one of the Insecticons hooted. "Turbofox got your tongue, birdie? I don't know what you're planning, but you're not going to get anywhere with the Maximals with this guy. He doesn't even _look_ like Megatron."

"Just a big lizard … lizard …" Shrapnel echoed.

The other Condor nodded gravely. "We don't need – or want – another Megatron, Beaker."

At long last, Laserbeak spoke; the voice that issued from his vocalizer was soft, as inky as his stride. "No one will stand behind the name of Shockwave, or _Soundwave_, for that matter, Buzzsaw" he began. "What, did you think you could rally our brethren with such? Not even Tripredacus has that amount of pull. And you wonder why we have gotten no where in the past three centuries."

Megatron watched the taunt pull of the other's jaw as the barb hit home. Well, blast it; this was more fun than shooting primitives in a barrel! He wondered how long it would be before they realized he was still here.

Buzzsaw snorted, but it was the lead Insecticon who answered: "Oh, not true. Sometimes, for fun, we prop ol' Soundwave in the window and scare the oil out of little Maximals."

"Enough, Bombshell," the orange-black former Cassetticon cut in.

Indeed, Megatron had had enough. He coughed, drawing their attention. "Do pardon me, but I could not help but overhear your conversation. It seems to me that you gentlemen are in a dilemma – you want to overthrow the Maximals – and I mean, who doesn't – but you think someone of my divine stature is not good enough to lead the way? Gentlemen, gentlemen, have you learned nothing? Of course everything is in the name – with a good dash of powerful persona behind that appellation."

Buzzsaw tapped the crumbling tabletop with long, curved claws. "Megatron _failed_, pretender. The Predacon movement needs a fresh name, a new face, to spearhead our rise back to domination. You are none of those."

A low growl started in the back of Megatron's throat and bubbled out through his fanged mouth. "How dare you –"

But Buzzsaw was quick; he snatched the control box from his brother's hand and cranked the power down. Energy popped out his ankle and flowed like water from his system. Down he went again on his knees, managing to avoid cracking some more teeth on the ancient table. _Oh, they would pay!_

"I dare," the other Condor growled. "Now, get up. Understand this," he said, as Energon returned to Megatron's abused system, "you might have had some semblance of godhood wherever you were for three years, but that is over. Maybe you might have had a chance had you kept your real name, but you blew it. Now you are stuck, and I tell you, no one will follow a failed name."

_Wrong,_ Megatron hissed in his cortex. _And when I rise again, you shall be the first to fall._

Buzzsaw turned back around. "Now, brother, have you anything interesting to add, or did we convene for nothing?"


	10. Soundwave

**Chapter Nine**

"_The splendors that belong unto the fame of earth are but a wind,  
that in the same direction lasts not long."  
—Dante, Purgatorio (XI, 100)_

Laserbeak curled his lower jaw at the additional slight. "It was my thought that you would be interested in reviving the old campaign," he said at last, giving a little shake of his cowled head to flick loose a stray sheet of rust that had fallen from the pock-marked ceiling. "But it seems I was mistaken, as you so astutely pointed out … _brother_."

Buzzsaw sniffed. "Cowardly as ever, Laserbeak. Only a coward would believe the catalyst for a new revolution resided in an old idea. Still." He looked Megatron up and down once more, keeping out of reach. "I'm sure that one of Bombshell's Cerebro Shells could turn your stupidity into a powerful weapon. What do you have to say about that, Bombshell?"

The Insecticon leaned forward eagerly. "It would be my deepest pleasure, Lord Buzzsaw." He tapped the pistol sticking out of the middle of his forehead. "With one of my shells, we can easily infiltrate Tripredacus."

Buzzsaw appeared impressed. "Well, get over here and do it."

---

They made an odd little band, Solarflare reflected, as she rode high, perched on the angular shoulder strut of Captain Optimus Primal. Below, the rest of the Maximals trotted along in beastmode, following the sure nose of Silverbolt as he led them down one alleyway, then another. As she swayed on her perch like an imported songbird in the Great Cybertropolis Zoo, Flare kept a sharp optic on their surroundings. Part of her wanted to scout ahead, as she had done many times in the past, but this was Cybertron, not Earth, and her form was not familiar around the warehouse district. Many would wonder what the sleek grey bondmate of the super-rich Mirage Ligier was doing in this dump.

"Anything?" Primal called up to her at one point.

She shook her head. "No."

He sighed. "Well, I guess that's a good thing."

"In part," she replied softly. He looked away, head hung low between his shoulder struts. Flare could sense dejection and sadness in his body language. She felt for him, she really did; he believed he had done the right thing, and now all their years of fighting had been lost because of his decision. _Perhaps he should talk with Optimus after this is over_, she reflected as she swung her head high to peer over the lip of a downtrodden building. Hopefully – hope-to-Primus – they would find this Megatron and deal with him before the rest of the world got wind of it … before the Predacons got wind of it.

"Anything on the radio?"

"No. Not even static. The boys must be running silent."

"Any yourself?"

She swiveled, looking Primal dead in the optics. "I'm broadcasting a slight, but low frequency beacon. If they need to look for me, they'll know where I am."

His shoulders sagged a little lower before picking up again. "Might I ask a question, Solarflare?"

A blip three miles to the left delayed her answer; it turned out to be a garbage drone, carting the spoils of high society to the smelter. She zoomed in, checked it over, then flicked back to normal sight. "Surely." Whatever could he want to ask her now?

"When … when we find Megatron, will you let us deal with him?"

The grey eagle studied the Transmetal-2 gorilla, grinding her beak in consternation. She looked away, wings hunched. "Captain …" She paused, took a breath. "Captain, I don't know. I'm torn between my Autobot loyalties and my empathy for you and your crew." There was a small rift between her and Mirage over this already, and she did not wish it to grow any bigger. During the war, they put their duties first, their relationship second; after the war, it was the other way around. They deserved that much, they agreed.

"Understood," he replied, reaching up and pushing a fallen beam away, its aging paint flaking away at the merest touch.

Flare bit her lower beak. Were these Transformers Autobots, it would surely make things easier – at least that's what she tried to convince herself. That they were Maximals, the inheritors of a peaceful Cybertron … made it more difficult. And like all Autobots under Prime's command, she felt the sting of his rejection as clear as the day it was announced that he was to be relived of authority, to "retire in peace". And that … well, that clouded her judgment and biased her opinions.

"Captain …" she began, only to be cut off by a halt in movement. Primal swung forward as Silverbolt's head came around.

"What is it?" he demanded a little eagerly.

"The trail, it thus ends here," the wolf-eagle gestured. "Our quarry seems to have entered the building yonder, the one with the coal black door."

Flare felt Primal swallow. He shifted and she obligingly glided off his shoulder, transforming in mid-air to land with a soft gust of wind on the littered ground. He rose up, transforming; as if were a signal, they all did the same.

Cheetor pulled a large gun from subspace, twirling it one-handedly. "So, Big Bot, do we go in?"

Primal glanced towards Flare; she lifted her right hand and made a small gesture: _don't look at me,_ it said. He rose taller, optics narrowed as he studied the building – it was like all the others, squarish, rusty in color, and falling apart at the edges. "For Cybertron!" And they charged, leaping up onto the roof, pounding for all they were worth.

* * *

Light from the shattered roof streamed through in unchecked gobs, splattering the ancient floor with circles of gold. "Get back!" Buzzsaw was crowing, shoving the bound Megatron further and further into the dust-choked depths. "You're a fool, brother! You led them right to us!" A shot from the Condor's pistol coughed out, striking Laserbeak in the back. The other Cassetticon staggered forward, falling into the decrepit table; the old wood could take no more punishment – it caved in, taking Laserbeak to the floor with it. 

"Battle! Battle!" Bombshell positively cooed, rubbing his hands over the Cerebro Shell pistol embedded in his forehead.

"It's been a long time … time …" Shrapnel echoed gleefully, palming his own rust-caked gun from subspace. It came out with an odd, sickening sucking sound. The Insecticon looked at the barrel, which was all that had appeared, his brow ridge drawing down in near-comic abject sadness.

Megatron stumbled where he was pushed, one taloned leg catching the large foot of the creature in the corner. Over the appendage he went, landing amidst a nest of wires and tubes. Buzzsaw was on top of him immediately. "This is your fault, too," the Condor hissed, his pistol levered at the base of Megatron's jaw. "But I haven't the time to execute you properly. Listen and listen good, pretender. I don't care if they get you, but I'm not going to die because of it!" Megatron lifted his head, his lip curling slightly, in triumph. He felt Buzzsaw's taloned hands unhooking each and every one of the wires that held the Energon regulator in place. As the last fell from his back, the Transmetal dragon felt new: insanely, powerfully new. He leapt to his feet, knocking the former Cassetticon to the side as the energy bars snapped with the ease of twigs. He rounded with a great arc of his draconic hand-head, intent on smashing the insolent, craven bird to pieces, only to find Buzzsaw had disappeared.

More light fell onto the floor, commingling with the layers of dust, rust and old Energon. The shouts and battle calls of the Maximals outside rose to a crescendo; underlying those was a high, piercing shriek. Rubble from the roof crashed through in large chunks; not far behind was a small figure, brandishing two boxy bombs in each hand.

"Well, hello there!" Rattrap greeted. "Mind if I join the party?"

Megatron smiled thinly. "I think not. It's private." His arm lifted slowly, grandly. Energy positively hummed through his revitalized structure, and he was going to savor every microsecond of the time it took to power up.

The Rat opened his mouth to give a reply in return, but it merely dropped further. "Ohhh, man …"

Megatron merely laughed. "What, Rat? Have you finally become awed of my presence?"

Rattrap palmed the bombs back onto their latches along his upper thighs. "Hey! Boss-man!"

As Megatron moved forward, something behind him began to move. Through one of the holes in the roof, Optimus Primal leaned forward, taking a shot at Bombshell and Shrapnel as they popped out from cover. "What?"

"DECEPTICON!"

It was at that moment that Megatron realized the debris that was raining on his sleek exterior was not coming from the roof, rather it was dripping off of the rapidly-rising hulk in the corner. Metal groaned and chunks of paint chipped off in great sheets, fluttering to the floor as the boxlike Decepticon continued to rise. Partly hidden in the shadow of his bulk was Buzzsaw, pulling wires and cranking a large generator. "What in the Pit …!"

"The Cassetticons are slaves no more!" Buzzsaw declared as the creature's head thrust through the roof. Light from the new day streamed onto the dank blue paint, splashed across the shattered glass of its chest with only a tip of purple identifying it as a Decepticon.

Megatron rounded, quickly seeing how this was slipping out of hand. If he didn't act, his advantage was destroyed. "YOU!" The energy that he had been saving up for Rattrap was quickly converted and aimed at Buzzsaw. The blast ripped through the leg of the junk pile, driving through it and into the wall … and beyond. Nimbly, Buzzsaw leapt out of the way, latching hand and foot talons into the large cracks in the Decepticon's armor; he scrabbled with amazing agility and landed neatly on a button that protruded from the mech's clavicle. Gears ground and servos popped as the splintered chest of the Decepticon lowered an inch, then two.

Megatron growled, banging his draconic head-hand on the side of his thigh in an effort to get to recharge quicker. He should have taken more time to aim, rather than succumbing to blind-rage. All around him, the hovel was falling to pieces as more Maximals landed. Shots rang and flared in a vicious flurry, all of which he casually ducked to avoid.

"This ends here, Megatron!" an oh-so-familiar – and hated – voice proclaimed.

The Draconic Predacon casually turned around, seeing Optimus Primal land with an earth-shaking thud on the floor. Above, the Maximals were dropping – two, then three, landed atop the large Transmetal-2 … plus one he had never seen before.

Megatron sighed dramatically, still tapping his dragon-head on his leg. Power hummed discreetly in his circuits. "It never ends, Optimal Optimus; wars continue, through peace and beyond."

But the cursed primate was unable to answer, for the strangely feathered femme on his shoulder let loose a high-pitched keen: "SOUNDWAVE!"

* * *

Flare could barely believe her optics. Through the rain of debris – metal, wood, paint, nails, rivets – that threatened to clog her ventilators and optics, she saw him. During the Pax Cybertronia signing and the subsequent banning of the majority of the Decepticon forces, she had not seen nor heard of Soundwave. But there he was: over twenty feet of crumbling titanium metal, more than a dozen fat cables linking him to an aged generator; a dozen more hung limp, trailing from his arms, legs and neck. The stalwart sentinel of Megatron's Earthbound forces had not been reformatted, and it showed. Whatever had happened to him, she would never know, for it seemed as if the old boom box had lost most of his cognitive abilities. His optics, which always seemed to her to be shaped like Raybans, were dull and dank, no spark of intelligence behind those once blood-red lenses. 

This was probably a good thing.

At her shout, Optimus turned to look at her. "What?"

"Soundwave! That's Soundwave!" Her talons dug deep into his Transmetal plating. "Megatron's most loyal lieutenant."

Optimus looked back – up. "Oh … that's just … Prime."

Cheetor glanced up from where he had just smashed Bombshell and Shrapnel's heads in. The mysterious green and purple mech had long since vanished. "You mean, that's a real, live Decepticon?"

Flare shifted her stance on Primal's shoulder. Her optics zoomed up Soundwave's ravaged body, past the wires and tubes, up to where Buzzsaw was using his taloned feet – those more wicked and curved than her own – to push the boom box's chest all the way open. _Cassette._

Optimus followed her gaze. "If we don't move quick, Cheetor, he _will_ be alive."

Understanding dawned clear in the Cheetah's optics. "Right!" Kicking Bombshell and Shrapnel to the side, he bounded with great strides over to Soundwave's feet and began firing up at Buzzsaw.

Below, Rattrap sighed. "Awr, man, if it isn't one thing, it's another. Hey – where'd ol' Megs go?"

Underneath Solarflare, the Transmetal-2 gorilla's shoulders bucked and heaved. "SLAG!"

Flare gripped tighter, swaying like a pole in the wind as Primal shifted, rising to his full height. "Captain!" she shouted in his nearest audio. "I'll radio this in. For now, I suggest we watch out for Soundwave?" Thankfully, the captain followed her taloned forefinger as it pointed up at Buzzsaw, whose sleek head was already well below the leading edge of Soundwave's open chest.

Rhinox leaned over Primal's head. "You fought him," he intoned gruffly, "what are his weaknesses?"

Solarflare blinked hugely. She bit her lip and stared back at the trembling Decepticon as Buzzsaw worked his way deeper inside the old mech. Now wasn't the time to reveal that she did more sitting than fighting during the Great War. Then her optics locked on the hole in his lower leg. "Age!" she cried, regulating all available power to her legs, launching herself from Primal's shoulder to the Decepticon's chest. Soundwave swayed slightly as she landed, but did not react.

"_Solarflare to any available Autobot unit!"_ she broadcast on a wide, but exclusive ban.

"… _szzzsssshhhsss … Hound here …what's the matter, Flare?"_

Clinging like a leech to the mech's slothing plating, the wild avian femme scrabbled sideways as the whir of hydraulics alerted her to the fact Buzzsaw had somehow activated Soundwave's powercore. Down below, Primal was ramming into the Decepticon's injured leg, while Rhinox and Rattrap took the other. She could not see where Silverbolt or BlackArachnia were, but the additional sound of gunfire told her that they were occupied. "_Warehouse district, sector … sector …"_ she scrabbled for a location, peering up through the wide open ceiling for a landmark. "… _20. Near the new hold area."_

Another voice joined the conversation, this one belonging to Prowl back at the estate. "_What have you found?"_ he interrupted without shame.

"_Well,"_ she replied, digging her pistol free and putting it to the side of Soundwave's head, "_we did find the imposter-Megatron, but we also found something else."_ She pulled the trigger, noting with grim satisfaction, and a thin trickle of war-thrill, as a large chunk of the Decepticon's head unit blew away from the force of her blast. Alas, it seemed that the brains were no longer in residence.

"_SOLARLFLARE! Stop acting like Sunstreaker and tell me!"_

Flare's crest slid back in embarrassment. She did have a tendency to wax Twin when reporting in the middle of a battle. "_There was a small group of reformatted Decepticons – Laserbeak, Buzzsaw, Bombshell and Shrapnel among them. I thought I saw a Constructicon, but he got away when we broke through. The imposter was here, but he beat it when Buzzsaw activated Soundwave."_

Silence. Flare could imagine the reaction among the Autobots back home as they took in this news. She took her pistol and put it to another area on the Decepticon's head. Soundwave rocked dangerously to the side as his wounded leg was being wrenched from under him.

"Get those wires!" she heard Primal shout to Rattrap.

Sheathing the pistol, Flare attacked the holes with her bare talons. It was easier than she thought: age and rust allowed her to simply peel the casing from Soundwave's head like one would a banana.

"_What the slag is Soundwave doing there?"_ Prowl was back and almost as demanding as Red Alert.

"_I don't know, but Buzzsaw just slipped inside and seems to be controlling him, instead of the other way around,"_ she replied, grabbing a fistful of wires and severing them neatly.

"_I'm ordering all units to converge on your location, Solarflare. Keep broadcasting." _

"_Will do."_ She cut the connection and leaned over. "Reinforcements on the way."

Rattrap swung by, hanging by one hand off a lopped off cable. "Well, isn't that lovely. The Autobot cavalry to the rescue." Soundwave shifted, causing the cable Rattrap was clinging onto to break; had it not been for Flare's waiting hand, the metallic Rat would have been stepped on.

Flare smiled endearingly. "You were saying?"

Rattrap scoffed in defense, but used her arm to pull himself up the straight edge of Soundwave's shoulder. "Crazy femme," he muttered under his breath. "Now, how do we get inside this oversized music box?"

She pointed. "That's where the Cassetticons were stored when they weren't running around and killing people."

Rattrap looked up at her, a mixture of disgust and revulsion plain on his face. "Whaddayah mean, _stored_?"

"AU-TO-BOT," thundered a familiar voice. Flare froze, her spine stiff as the word shot straight through her.

"No time to explain!" she cried, grabbing Rattrap by the arm and hauling him, tail and all, over to the front edge of the Decepticon's chest. Servos clogged with rust and taunt with disuse raised a horrible, aural-shattering sound as Soundwave's battered head slowly turned in their direction. "Get down there and stop Buzzsaw!" Soundwave's head turned a fraction of an inch more; their platform shook as his arms were slowly cranked upwards, fingers stretching towards them.

"Awrr, man!" Rattrap bemoaned as he slowly slipped into the chest cavity. "Why did I have to be made _small?_"

* * *

Rattrap swallowed his revulsion and ducked beneath the edge of Soundwave's chest. As a rat, he was used to odd smells, but this one took the cheese cake. Among the ones he could identify – and those he didn't want to – was rancid mech fluid, aged coolants, stale and stagnant Energon (probably leftover from three hundred years ago); not to mention the odor of the wires and the scent of the generator wafting up through the major and minor cracks in this tin can's hull. 

It was fairly dark, with only a string of track lights to illuminate the way. Rattrap sniffed here and there, desperately trying to isolate the Condor's stink from the myriad he was floating in. _Shoulda listened to ol' Stripes back on Earth,_ he thought morosely. _Oh well, no time to dwell … here birdie, birdie._

The floor creaked and swayed with Soundwave's outer motions. Rattrap slid down a short hall, fingers and toes scrabbling for purchase on the uneven surface. Rust coated the "floor", shot his traction to the Pit. Faster than you could say "cheese", he was rammed up against the back – with more rust. "They sure don't build them like they used to," he groused, peeling his face from a most unpleasant patch of "stuff". On the opposite side, he could just make out the sounds of another individual. Feeling down around his thighs, Rattrap pulled his box bombs from their magnetic holds.

Well, he'd gotten rid of one former Decepticon with these babies. It was their only chance – hopefully Soundwave wasn't bombproof.

Easing his way around the wall, Rattrap peered into the gloom. There was a thin outline of a door, along with a slight shadow moving within. This was either going to be the easiest bang-up job he'd ever had, or his last. He was hoping for the former.

Taking a deep breath through his intakes, Rattrap readied the bombs and kicked in the door. Buzzsaw looked up, his arms jammed up to the elbow in Soundwave's circuits. The Decepticon's optics widened and his beak began to open. Rattrap never gave him the chance.

"Happy landing, Decepti-creep!"

Two bombs adhered themselves to the Condor – one on his forehead, one on his chest. Buzzsaw shrieked – not a pleasant sound – as he tried to rip away from the connection he had with Soundwave and pull the bombs off. Rattrap spun on his heel and kicked himself into beastmode, using his Transmetal wheels to gain a better purchase on the grime-infested floor. Buzzsaw continued to holler and sway as the seconds ticked off the bombs' clocks. Rattrap heard their sweet music in his cortex as he sped down the short hall; with a final burst of power, he shot through the remnants of Soundwave's chest.

"TAKE COVER!"

A moment later, Lieutenant Soundwave exploded.


	11. Hunting the Blood Red Serpent

**Chapter Ten**

_"There is no light save from that perfect peace  
__Which never is clouded: it is else darkness,  
Shadow of the flesh, or poison of its disease."  
—Dante, Paradiso, Canto XIX, Lines 64-66_

Sideswipe knew something was wrong, utterly _wrong_, when he lost Solarflare's homing beacon. One moment, it was sitting comfortably in the front of his cortex like a femme-for-hire, and the next, it was gone, leaving a gaping black hole.

"_Hound –" _

"_I felt it, too, Sides,"_ the tracker replied, almost instantaneously. "_Sunny, Breaker?" _

"_Gone,"_ the echoed.

"_It's those stupid Maximals' fault,"_ Sunstreaker added, riding low on his axels, engine humming dangerously low as they raced through the dead streets. "_Prime shoulda allowed us terminate that shithead … but nooooooooo …"_

Sideswipe rolled mental optics. "_You're getting cranky in your old age, bro,"_ he chastised, sending his brother a funny image of a decrepit Sunstreaker hobbling around Cybertron with a cane.

Hound coughed discreetly, trying to get the Twins back on track. Sunny snarled a response, but Sideswipe casually closed his aural tracks. Trailbreaker's calm yet firm tone cut through any animosity that the yellow one might be churning up. "_Brothers, brothers, I suggest that we save our energy for the road. We don't know how long it will take us to reach them. I'll radio Prime; Hound, can you follow it?"_

Assent flowed through their close commlink. Sideswipe generously moved to the left to allow Hound the front of their little band. From the reformatted Jeep's bed, a slim rod rose and flowered into a small satellite; this immediately began to twist and turn, searching for a dead frequency that only Hound could track.

Sideswipe kept his sensors on the road ahead; he was a warrior to the core, and thus did not fear the unknown, that tendril of doubt he knew was worming its way into Hound and Trailbreaker's sparks. This did not mean he wasn't concerned, but there was a time and place for everything; Flare could take care of herself, and as she often reminded them, she hated being rescued.

The old warehouse district was a bunch of cubes set on parallel, crossing roads. There was not a curve in the whole area, and it made their job all the easier. Sideswipe heard his brother grumbling behind him about how many hours it would take to clean all the gunk and junk and unspeakable crud out of his gleaming chassis. Sideswipe begrudgingly agreed. Truthfully, this was a shitty place, all rundown and in need of a good reformatting. The red Lamborghini had no idea why nothing had been done before, but then again, it wasn't his place to be concerned with such affairs. He had his merchant empire (generously funded by Mirage, if you could believe it) and that was all he contented himself with – that and the occasional gladiatorial matches in the new Cybertropolis Arena (for fun only, slag).

"_Right,"_ Hound pronounced, and in that direction they swung. "_Left. Straight. Right …"_

The deeper they drove into this miasma of despair, the grittier and grimier it became. Hound and Trailbreaker had no qualms about plowing right through large patches of sludge, but Sideswipe was with Sunstreaker on this one: they transformed, hopped over the stinking piles of goo, then hit the road once more.

Not long into their journey, Trailbreaker spoke up, having previously been deep in communication with Prime, Prowl and Mirage back at the estate. "_Smoke,"_ he enunciated deliberately.

Sunstreaker made a rude noise. "_Well, no shit, Sherlock. If you haven't noticed, this is a_ dump?"

Sideswipe peered up, then down. He drove close to his brother and gently nudged him, using the precise amount of pressure so that the yellow Lamborghini's paint wouldn't flake off. "_But there isn't any smoke around, bro,"_ he pointed out. "_That's the only one."_

Sunstreaker's reply was a short pause followed by a revving of his engine. "_Well, let's get to it then! I feel the urge to kick more lizard tail."_

Hound and Trailbreaker sighed, but they took up the chase all the same. Sideswipe jumped forward, matching his brother stride for stride – if you will. This time, neither Sunny nor Sides had any reserves about plowing through refuse; their goal was but a few hundred yards away, and they could feel their Energon pumps hasten in motion, rushing the precious fluid throughout their upgraded systems.

They sped around a sharp corner, down yet another alleyway before the whole street opened up into chaos. Where one of those cookie-cutter facilities should have been squatting and rusting away, there was nothing save blue and red metal. And a very large plume of smoke hovering delicately over the remnants of a tremendous explosion.

The Autobots threw themselves out of carmode and immediately began ringing the site. Sideswipe retracted his hands, bringing forth his famed piledrivers, and got to work. As he dug, he began noticing how strange this site was: here and there, among the rust red metal, were dank blue bits. A large chunk of glass, a faint logo spider-webbed beyond recognition, was poking out of ground. Sideswipe pulled one driver back and turned it over, fingering the ancient glass. Finding nothing worth his notice, he tossed it aside and began digging once more.

Methodically, he moved from one end to the other, idly reflecting on Flare's poor luck. The little grey femme always seemed to end up being buried under a ton of rubble. This made it what? Five or six? Maybe as much as ten, but that was stretching it a bit. As he shifted a particularly heavy piece, something grabbed at his toe; Sideswipe nearly dropped the bulky blue bit in surprise.

"…_zzssshhhssss … he-shzzzzz-llllsssshhhhh-phsssss."_

"I got Flare!" he shouted over his shoulder, bending down to haul the grey femme from under the slag pile. Those damned wings of hers caused a problem in extraction, but Sideswipe was not a gentle creature; he gave a tremendous yank – with Solarflare screaming bloody murder – and out she came. Fluff floated off her torn plumage, coasting gently in the smoke-filled air until it landed with delicate precision on a large shard of dank crimson glass. Holding her up by one forearm, the melee warrior lowered her to the ground, where she collapsed in a tangle of gritty, grimy grey parts. Beyond, Sunstreaker, Hound and Trailbreaker continued to sift through the rubble.

Sideswipe peered myopically at the femme. "Having fun without us, baby?"

Flare glared at him with one optic, the other trained on her kneecap as it wiggled back and forth. "So much," she returned tersely.

"Seriously." The red Lamborghini squatted beside her and used the heel of one fat hand to knock the errant joint back into place. Flare's crest shot straight up and her pinions stood out on either side of her body like a porcupine as the pain slammed home. "There. All better. I'm no Doc Ratchet, but that should hold for a while. Now, what happened here?"

Quietly, laboriously, Solarflare began recounting their adventure. As she haltingly spoke, another contingent of Autobots pulled up to the scene. Along with Tracks, Huffer and Brawn, there was Windcharger, who immediately set about tapping into his Quintesson-augmented magnetic powers to wade through the carnage. One by one, the Maximals were plucked from the pile, all in relatively good condition, considering most of them had somehow landed under Captain Primal's protective bulk. Four corpses were recovered as well: the two Insecticons, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw – well, Buzzsaw's head, his beak still in the gaping emotion he'd been found with by Rattrap.

"But no Soundwave," Brawn groused, his stocky arms folded across his barrel chest.

Rattrap glared at the former Minibot. "Yanno, man, a few hours ago, I woulda been in agreement with ya – but look around. This IS that Soundwavy thingamabob."

Huffer and Tracks appeared as dubious as Brawn until Captain Primal rose from his Twin-treatment and stuck his hand in a pile of slag. Sunstreaker sniffed. "Look at him," he complained to Sideswipe. "We pull his sorry, overbulked hide out of that shitheap and he goes diving back in. Hey, Flare – what'd they call it back on Earth – 'dumpster-diving'?"

"Wouldn't know," came her mumbled reply as she sat with her bum leg straight out, Windcharger pulling bits of Soundwave out of her plating.

Sideswipe snickered, shaking his head at the Maximal's antics. When they downsized bodies, they must've downsized their cortexes, too, because it seemed these guys lost it once they took hits to the noggin. How effective. Still, the Captain continued to root around; Sideswipe canvassed his vast repository of rude remarks and was getting ready to fire one off when the oversized monkey yanked something from the rubble.

"Is this proof enough?" he asked genially, a slight smirk hovering about his Prime-like features. The Autobots simply gawked: dangling from that space-age primate's massive paw was the cracked and caved-in head of Soundwave. The optic band had been blown completely free of its casing, but there was no mistaking who that face plate belong to.

Tracks whistled. He carefully picked his way to the Maximal and stared up at the decapitated head. "I'll be," he murmured urbanely. "That _is_ old Soundwave."

Sideswipe watched as his yellow twin's head slowly turned to face the Maximal Rattrap. "_You_ did this?" he exclaimed in horror. "With what!"

Clearly understanding that this was his moment to shine among the Autobots, Rattrap fairly preened. "Well," he blew on his nicked fingertips, "just two sticker-bombs, that's all." Tucking his hands behind his back, he rocked on his heels, grinning impudently up at Sunstreaker. "Guess they don't make Decepticons like they used to, eh?"

Not an individual who liked to be one-upped, Sunstreaker growled low, taking a step forward, black fist raised. "Listen here, pipe-sucker –" He was cut off by a piece of Soundwave's armor that came into contact with his head. "Who the fuck did –!" He whirled, only to see that Solarflare was standing, propped up between Windcharger and, surprisingly, BlackArachnia; she was digging another piece free with her pointed toe, ready to transfer it to her hand.

"You know," she began with deadly calm, "I'm getting very sick and very tired of this fucked up rivalry! Right now, I don't give two shits about how the Elders shafted Prime and gave Cybertron over to them. We have bigger issues here, Sunshine. So, shove your big, fat pipe back where it belongs and get with the program!"

Sideswipe rocked back on his heels. "She'd know," he murmured as an aside to a less-than-impressed Silverbolt, a lascivious grin on his face.

"How … quaint," the Fuzor replied, looking away, his ears slanted backwards in light of the information he so desperately did not want to hear. Sunstreaker's lip curled and he stared at Solarflare fiercely. It was one of his famous psychopathic looks, one that brooked no nonsense. "And what do you suggest we do, _girl_?"

"Find him."

Trailbreaker easily stepped between them, hands outstretched. "We regroup and call Prime, understand?" He looked from femme to mech, both of whom nodded in assent – Sunstreaker, begrudgingly. "Good. Trailbreaker to Ligier Tower …"

---

A dragon stalked among the refuse and wonton disposal of one-time-use items that the elite society was known for. The rusty surface beneath his gilded talons cracked and shifted dangerously, opening in rifts as wide as his tail as his bulk stalked the alleyways. Dirt, grime and unmentionables were piled high, some in mounds as tall as he was. These he was forced to plow through; as much as he wished to rain terror upon the highbrow society, he was constrained to the ground. Powerful as Megatron was, no minions were available as cannon fodder in the event that the Maximals came after him.

At the mere thought of Primal, Megatron's tail lashed out in a savage arc, obliterating the nearest rusted hut. Ancient metal flew through the air in a feather light rain, coating his fire-polished Transmetal armor in a fine mist. He snorted, tendrils of fire flicking out from his nostrils and curling delicately about his muzzle. "I am not an animal to be caged," he intoned, snaking his head as he spoke. "No one can hold me, for I am like the wind: powerful, intimidating, ethereal. Tripredacus could not hold me down with their laws; the Pax Cybertronia was a sham. Nor could my 'illustrious' ancestors. Fools all. The wisdom of ages was at their beck and call, along with new forms, and still they could not defeat me.

"I am the Alpha and the Omega … the end to all. What is a name but a tool? And though my chosen appellation holds contempt and failure in its grasp, it still holds _power_. No one can deny that – not even the Maximals. Optimal Optimus named himself for a soft, controllable individual; when Transformers speak the name of Prime, what do they conjure in their cortexes? Someone who willingly stepped aside, though he had all the power. But, ah, not I. The best way to judge a mech is by how much power he holds. Autobots and Maximals lose the battle by delegating power; power flows to the ones who know how to use it – solely. My namesake had the right of that one."

Megatron paused, arching his serpentine neck skyward. "Let all of Cybertron know this: I am Megatron, and I have come to rule. Forever."

---

Illusion fidgeted at her post. Trained by the best she might have been, but she was sparked in peacetime. She had never fired upon a living target, only simulators and cutouts upon her father's shooting range. She had no interest in those turbofox hunts her father and Spectrum went on from time to time, just to assure the high society that they were still in the game.

The gyrfalcon-femme stared at the long bars upon a field of green, each a different wavelength on the Transformer continuum. This was what her mother was best at. The Ark warriors used to embarrass Solarflare horribly by telling Illusion and Spectrum stories of how they had to almost blow things up in order to get her attention when she was working. "There are two things that can get Flare off the comm," they used to say. "An explosion, and Mirage with two glasses of high-grade."

A large blue hand rested itself gently on her shoulder strut. Illusion looked up into Optimus' bright blue optics. "Anything, Lu?"

She blinked and quickly scanned the board. "No, nothing save our own frequencies, Unc — sir."

Optimus ruffled her crest. "Prepare a coded missive to Cosmos." Illusion leaned forward, taloned fingers running over the board as she typed out the old Autobot commander's request. None of it made any sense to her – something about using the Predacon satellites to bounce a frequency to Cybertron and back again in order to pick up the imposter's unique signature. She had to wonder if it was even possible. Cosmos was old, and a little bit bumbling in his actions these days. But here, in their Tower estate, the Pax Cybertronia had been unanimously suspended, and Pre-signing ranks were in effect. Illusion did as she was ordered, without question.

When it was sent and they waited the obligatory ten-clicks for the code to pass through the usual channels and reach Cosmos, and for the former Minibot to reply he'd received transmission, Optimus patted her shoulder once more before turning away. Illusion watched him go out of the corner of her optic. Part of her was resistant to the fact of the possibility of another war. She wondered if this was how her father, Mirage, felt when he had first joined the Autobots. As if the military were an ill-fitting cog in his pristine structure. Still scanning, she listened to the conversation between Mirage and Prowl with half an audio:

"I fear that this Megatron is more slippery than the old one," Prowl was saying.

"I think it would do us all a world of good if we stopped comparing this creature to _our_ Megatron," her father noted dryly. "They're obviously dissimilar. We can't comb _old_ Megs' haunts, because this _new_ Megatron would not be caught dead there."

Prowl: "Do we know anything about this time bomb? Where he originated? Who he might be connected to?"

Mirage: "Our time with the Maximals was severely short. I don't think they even know where he is from. The underground society of the Predacons is far less forthcoming than the Arena days. We could see old Megatron rising from there."

There was an ironic pause at the Ligier's remark. It was Cybertron legend that the Tower-dwellers laughed in the face of their low-society compatriots when word spread that Megatron was coming. They paid dearly: with their lives, and the very Towers they built.

"Adjectives, then," Prowl continued. "What words did they use to describe him?"

" 'Megalomaniac'. That was from the femme, BlackArachnia."

"That can lead us down many paths," Prowl ruminated. "Self-importance, a sense of immortality, blatant disregard for any life other than his own." He sighed. "Illusion, call up Skyfire and Powerglide. Patch them into my console. He can't hide forever in that sinkhole."

Illusion jolted herself out of her half-daydream. "Yes, Commander …" She fiddled with the controls, trying to remember which ones were designed to formulate a link between this inner sanctum and the Autobots. Located in the heart of the Ligier estate was this saferoom, constructed entirely by Grapple, Hoist and Wheeljack; Mirage would have no outsiders know of its existence, or their intent to build such a structure. It was about as large as the old comm station in Autobot City, where her mother and Blaster reigned supreme; smooth white-silver walls concealed advanced Cybertronian technology: radios that were capable of connecting to any Ark warrior on the planet, among other things.

"_Trailbreaker to Ligier Tower …"_

Illusion jerked her fingers away as a familiar voice rang in her inner audios. She pulled the external mic close to her lips. "Ligier Tower receives you, Trailbreaker." Behind her, chairs pivoted and three large mech bodies were suddenly at her back. Mirage's slim black fingers reached in front of her, pulling the wire that connected her to the comm free and cranking up the volume.

"Visual," the noblemech prompted his spark-daughter.

Illusion bit her lip and strove to comply. "No visual attainable, Father."

Mirage grunted. Trailbreaker's voice came over the comm once more: "_Sorry about that, boys, but we're a little low on energy over here. Been digging for a few cycles."_

"Digging?" Prime leaned forward. "Explain, Trailbreaker. What have you found?"

Succinctly, in classic Trailbreaker style, the black mech relayed Solarflare's story to them. "_Unfortunately,"_ he continued, "_we arrived too late. Everyone is fine on our side, but there is no sign of Megatron."_

"We're having Cosmos try to track his signal from space," Optimus told the older warrior. "Shortly, Skyfire and Powerglide will be flying over. Link up with them and continue your search. I fear this has gone on for far too long; we're bound to be discovered sooner or later."

"_Aye, Prime. We'll keep an optic out for them. Any instructions?"_

Illusion turned her head slightly and saw a light in Prime's optics that she had never seen before. Conflicting emotions rolled behind those sky blue lenses as he fought an intense internal battle of morals. "Call us when you get there," he said at last. "I want to see this Predacon for myself."

Prowl and Mirage looked up at the old Autobot leader, jaws slightly slack. Even Trailbreaker's cool demeanor seemed shaken. "_Uh, of course, Prime. Trailbreaker out."_ Illusion smartly cut the connection as static from the other side began pouring through the speakers.

"Do you think that is wise, Optimus?" Prowl asked, looking at his old leader with a touch of concern. "We have more than enough warriors out there."

Optimus' brow ridge drew down sadly. "Don't begrudge an old soldier one more battle, my friend," he replied before moving back to his seat of command. This close, Illusion could sense the signals that flew back and forth between Mirage and Prowl as they conversed via internal commlink. She looked at them – old warriors with more than enough scars despite the shiny exterior.

"Skyfire and Powerglide," Prowl prompted, tapping his index finger on the back of her chair. Optics wide, she nodded, slamming the plug that draped from her neck back into its port in the console.

"Skyfire. Powerglide. This is Ligier Tower. Respond."


	12. The End of it All

**Chapter Eleven**

_Thou shalt know by experience how salt the savor is of other's bread,  
and how sad a path it is to climb and descend another's stairs.  
—Dante, Paradiso (XVII, 58)_

Primus forgive him, but Optimus Primal was more than a little skeptical about the plan: rolling en masse down the warehouse streets in hopes of catching up with Megatron. After so many hopes of peace being dashed to bits – not to mention the betrayal of Ravage – promises of the end tended to leave a bad taste on his sensors. More Autobots had poured into the small area of destruction after the big black mech named Trailbreaker had finished his communiqué with Optimus Prime. Like Rattrap, Primal had to wonder, was there really more than meets the eye to these old soldiers? They seemed so fluid in their movements, so at ease with each other (the Twins not withstanding). It was almost as if they were cortex-linked. Their banter spoke of tight friendships and rivalries. It was hard not to feel like a parasite on the edge of a powerful unit; looking at them waving their arms and gesturing skyward to the two jets, Skyfire and Powerglide, Primal thought for the briefest of moments that perhaps he and the Axalon crew could just slip away and let them deal with it. The Autobots certainly had the strength in numbers, as well as the undeniable enormity of experience at their beck and call. Many of them had been functioning for over nine million years, with a good half of that time engaged in battle. The Maximals, as a subgroup of the Autobots, had only been around for about three hundred years.

It was very hard not to feel depressed about the situation as a whole.

"Hey, man," somemech prompted. Optimus lifted his shoulders and turned to look down at Jazz, the special operatives agent. "You ready t'roll out?"

What more could he say or do? "Yes."

The white and black mech peered at him from behind that guileless blue visor. "If'n you don't mind me buttin' into your private business, but ya don't sound too cheery."

Optimus' mouth popped open, but Jazz wasn't finished speaking. "Y'don't have t'worry, man. We'll get that slaggin' dragon." With a jaunty wave, the Autobot left, jogging back to his comrades. Primal merely sighed and straightened his shoulders. He knew what he had to do, what was expected of him. But what if he failed, what if he defied their expectations and just left? Sure, Megatron was a powerful threat, but faced with all these Autobots, it was so easy to let the burden of commander slip away.

"Are you comin', Boss-man?" Rattrap impertinently called out. "Can't let these ancient gas-guzzlers one-up us, now can we?"

Primal blinked, then began to laugh. BlackArachnia made a small sign against her helm to Silverbolt, indicating she thought their chief had finally slipped a circuit. But Primal paid her no heed. Rattrap's words merely reminded him of how close they were. And with that thought tucked deep into his cortex, he bellowed, "Maximals! Transform and roll out!"

* * *

Cosmos had never been happier. The tiny UFO bobbed and weaved over the gleaming surface of Cybertron like a yo-yo jacked-up on sugar. Oh, he was well aware of the enormity and severity of the issue, but for the first time in three hundred years, he felt like _somebody_. (It was tough, coming down off that nine-million year high and finding out that your efforts were barely worth a thought of the new generation.) True, there was the possibility of a resurgence of violence between Maximals and Predacons, but wasn't the purpose of this mission to stop such an occurrence from coming around? By Primus, he would do his best. 

Tens of thousands, possibly tens of millions, of signals were beamed to and from Cybertron almost every hour; every single one was distinct, but trying to find the needle among the haystack – as the human saying went – was the difficult part. Fortunately for the Autobots, Cosmos was a pro. He hadn't spent all his hours on patrol over Earth scheming up ways to scare humans in an effort to relieve his boredom. No, he often played with the various signals coming from the planet, honing his skills for such an occasion.

While bouncing around space, he found that Decepticon signals, like scents, were quite conspicuous. They nature might have been an influence to the "flavor" of said waves, but Cosmos did not have the background to make such a conjecture. All he knew was that Autobots and Decepticons, when laid side by side, were different. Thus, he was able to narrow the myriad threads to a few million, then a few hundred thousand.

Space traffic was getting a little more crowded now, as night spun into day, then day into mid-afternoon. He had more than enough close calls and dirty phrases shouted at him in the last hour than he'd had in his whole life.

Still, what fun!

Along with scanning frequencies, Cosmos scanned the surface with his bare sensors. He knew the relative position of the imposter Megatron, and that is where he concentrated his efforts.

"_Cosmos, ol' buddy, how's it hangin'?"_

The old Minibot spun on his axis, lights along his midsection blinking in surprise. "_Powerglide?" _

"_The one and only,"_ the jovial crimson plane replied. "_Me'n'Skyfire were wond'ring when you were gonna come down and join us."_

Cosmos gave a wry chuckle, spying the other Minibot through his telescopic lens. "_Sorry. My orders have me staying up here."_ He paused. "_Unless you've seen something."_

There was a Transformer equivalent of a shrug along the intercomm link. "_Nothing. Bare as Charr, let me tell ya. What about you? Find anything in that slag pile worth talkin' about?" _

"_Unfortunately, no. I'm having a difficult time trying to isolate this new Megatron's signature. There's so many Predacons around …"_

Powerglide send a rumble of distaste along the line. "_Ah, well, we'll find him soon enough. From what I've heard, he's big'n'scaly, not something you can easily pass up." _

"_Well, I'll see you around, then. I'll let you know if I find anything."_ Wordless assent flowed through the link before Cosmos was alone again. Down below, the red plane dipped his wings and sped off in the opposite direction, flying low over the rusty buildings of the warehouse district. Cosmos watched him go for a moment, then spun counterclockwise. His cheery demeanor was slowly fading, the longer the day went on. Two planes plus himself, _plus_ the contingent of Autobots _and_ the small band of Maximals – and they could find _nothing_?

The green mech spun higher, widening his field of view. Maybe if he concentrated his band on a section by section basis, which would increase his chances.

By Primus, why didn't he think of that first?

All that time spent plowing through vid waves, transmitters, satellites … !

Slowly, Cosmos flowed over the decrepit district, following his formula for identifying different bots. Clicks and clicks ticked by; a transport vessel from Junkion passed near and insulted him with canned Earth '50s references. He caught snippets of conversation between the party below and tailored his search pattern to run parallel. A few comments were thrown his way and he replied in clipped phrases, digging deeper and deeper into the ruins. All his being, all his spark was throw into finding this draconic daemon.

Cosmos spun again, dipping low. The rust was slightly interferring with his instruments from this altitude, so it was either lose the signal or get blasted for finding the source. In this case, he'd rather get blasted (he was a tough old thing, anyway). A moment later, a faint trace – a mere blip, really – caught his attention. Immediately, he threw every computer he had in his bulky body into analyzing it ten thousand ways. Hope raced through his system, threatening to overwhelm his cortex. _No, no, Cosmos, keep it level …_ But, no! It had to be true!

The green UFO wheeled, skimmed the thick, grimy "clouds" that hovered over the dilapidated area in an attempt to isolate the anomaly. Oh, it had to be! "_Grid Theta, Grid Theta …"_ he called low and urgently, sending his link to Powerglide and Skyfire alone. Hopefully they were high enough that whatever special abilities this new Megatron possessed would not allow him to detect their conversation.

"_!" _

"_?"_

Instantly, the Valkyrie and jet were at the front of his cortex, two powerful presences that almost bowled him over with the intensity of his sending: "_What in the Matrix –" "Didja find it?"_

Cosmos could hardly believe his own sensors, so much so that he almost forgot that he was talking to his friends. Quietly, serpentinely stalking the shadows, was a flame-red creature, his metallic scales laced with veins and whorls of purple and gold. Cosmos switched lenses, peered at the creature through infrared, then the spectrometer … five more before he could calculate a response. No wonder he couldn't get a tight fix! There was something about the Transmetal-2 construction of this Megatron's body that made it almost invisible to current technology as Mirage was to the naked optic. Enough time for that … "_Cosmos to Prime …"_

* * *

Prowl leaned back, eying Optimus. "This is it," he pronounced. 

Prime stopped his pacing and laid his great blue hands on either side of his old vice commander's backrest. "Indeed it is."

Something gleamed in the normally-reserved Prowl's optics. "So, what's the plan?"

"You remain here with Illusion; I need someone to help her man the Tower."

Reserve went out the hatch as Prowl gaped. "You –"

"Mirage." Optimus uncharacteristically ran over his old second-in-command.

The spy turned his head slowly. "Chief?"

"Get your rifle."

Mirage's shoulders lifted, as did his brow ridge; he stood up, reaching around behind him to pull his beloved hunting weapon from its customary position at his back. "Locked and loaded, Prime." His grey lips were set tight, fingers clenching around the stock and barrel of his rifle. Whatever Optimus had in mind, he would find out soon enough.

Illusion twisted in her seat, mouth slung almost as low as Prowl's. "Father …" Mirage lifted a slim black finger to silence her.

"You'll be fine," he sent on a tight, personal link. "_You're my sparkling, you know what to do. I have faith in you, Lu. Besides, Prowl is here, and if anything happens to us, he'll take care of you."_ The warrior in him tried to reassure the parent in him that this was the right thing to do, that his assessment of her skills was not just pride. And he hoped to Primus that Prowl would not have to take care of her in the end.

Illusion's lip trembled; the mature femme was replaced with the battle-naïve warrior. "_Father –Daddy …" _

"_I have faith in you,"_ he insisted, reaching out and squeezing her shoulder, knowing that as Solarflare's daughter, too, she had that avian ferocity and determination. She would make it if the Pit spilled over. _Primus forbid …_

"Where are you going?" Prowl almost demanded, half-rising from his chair. Optimus gently, but firmly, pushed the cruiser back into his seat. Mirage knew what he was thinking: _how could you leave me again?_

"I wish I could, old friend, but I can't. Tell no one that we've left," the old commander warned, deliberately refraining from leaking his innermost thoughts. "Even if they specifically ask for us. Distract them – you know what to do. If anyone finds out, then this will be for naught."

The black and white looked extremely dubious. Optimus patted his shoulder encouragingly.

"Trust me, Prowl. Mirage, let's roll."

Mirage squeezed Illusion's strut, trailed his hand down to her fingers and gripped them as well. Her hold was slack and the look in her optics fleetingly reminded him of her first day at school, back on Earth. _His baby girl …_ Resolutely, the older noble pushed his emotions to the side, in effect becoming the cold, distant elitist he'd once been. Quickly, the spy followed the large red-white-blue mech through the halls of his estate, down into the foyer and onto the landing pad. He said not a word as Optimus instructed him to pilot his personal hopper, kept his optics straight ahead while the larger mech busied himself with the controls.

"You never used to be this quiet about a battle," Prime remarked, almost idly. Mirage turned his head away, reaching under the console to pull the ignition. For a while, all that could be heard was the whine of the engines. The former spy cranked the power, and the craft shuddered in preparation for takeoff.

"I guess I learned a little something along the way," the Ligier said at last. The whine of the engines rose to a deafening crescendo; the spy set his foot on the gas, and with a roar, the hopper took off, streaking over the estate, white-blue flames licking around the twin boosters. Prime sat back, staring through the tinted viewscreen, his sky blue optics impassive.

"I hope that this will be a last resort," he murmured.

Curiousity finally wormed its way into Mirage's cortex. "What do you mean, Optimus?"

"What kind of ammunition do you have, Mirage?"

An inkling of understanding flared into the white-blue's cortex. "Several," he replied slowly. He steadied the controls with his knees and reached into a subspace pocket, bringing forth a canister. Ever since Rattrap's invasion, he had kept to carrying both his rifle, as well as a large stock of ammo with him at all times. Even to bed, though tucked away so Flare wouldn't complain about the extra pointy bits. "Armor-piercing, force-shield busting, my usual liquid-fuel darts … you name it, I have it."

"Good."

Replacing the canister, Mirage took up the controls in a more conventional manner. "Optimus, I don't mean to pry, but I do need to know where we're going."

Optimus sighed. "Apologies, Mirage. I want you to take us to the gates. We'll be moving on foot into the warehouse district from there."

The spy gave his old commander a sidelong glance. "You're not planning on taking this fool on, are you?"

Behind the mask, Mirage could hear a rattled sigh. "Am I getting so transparent in my old age?" Prime murmured. The Ligier remained silent, gently guiding the hopper through the thick streets of central Cybertropolis. "No, in answer to your question. At least … I hope not."

"That is why I'm here." Mirage tilted his head, catching Prime's nod. "Chief, if you wanted me to blow this insular creature up, you should have let me get my shoulder-cannon." The edges of his grey mouth quirked enough to assure Optimus that he was joking.

"Are you happy, Mirage?"

The spy blinked. Was Prime going through a mid-life crisis? _Primus_, he hoped not. Not when they were just about to go into battle! "Of course. I have all that I ever wanted: Flare, my estate, my sparklings. My friends," he deliberately added – and stressed. "Aren't you?"

"I thought so."

The spy sighed. "Optimus," he began, using the formal instead of his usual informal "chief", "we would have all backed you to take over as Cybertron's leader if you wanted us to. Slag, _we wanted you to_. Do we hold it against you because you stepped down? No; you thought it was noble, and we did, too." He halted the craft to idle at a traffic light and looked over at the Autobots' finest Prime, slouching in his co-pilot's chair. "Til all are one, Optimus."

Low blue optics shifted to lock with steady, clear sky blue ones. Slowly, Optimus nodded. "Until all are one."

Mirage grunted. That sounded more like the Optimus of old, the same giant who had convinced a snobby noblemech to join the Autobots.

The light changed and they moved forward. Mirage took the quickest route to the gates, bypassing most of the traffic with some short-cuts and a few illegal turns. He parked near the entrance to the Six Lasers Over Cybertron and quickly scanned his credit card to save the hopper from being towed. What was winning a personal war when you returned only to find your ride taken? Details, details.

Spy and commander slipped out of the docking bay and ran along the back of the park, where garbage and other unsavory material lay in heaps. They hopped the fence and landed without a sound on the other side. Mirage paused, bringing his rifle from around his back and loading several canisters into the chamber; he then looked up at Optimus expectantly.

"Here I go alone," the great mech intoned. "We'll forge our own paths to the end." He looked down at the spy. "I'm giving you free reign, Mirage. If you think it necessary, destroy him."

Silently, Mirage watched him transform, sans that ubiquitous grey trailer, and roar off into the waxing daylight. A slow, self-assured smile crossed his lip components, a hint of his old superiority. Prime knew he didn't have to give him permission, because from the very beginning, Mirage had often acted on his own initiatives. But it was nice to know that Prime approved – at least, this time. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, the former spy faded into the shadows to begin the hunt.

---

He was close; he could feel it. Just a few clicks more, and he would be at the gates. And then, onto victory. Draconic lips pulled back from sabre teeth, smiling without humor, without feeling. The Maximals had brought about their own demise, and he would make sure they remembered it for a very long time.

Lifting his paw, Megatron paused. His sensitive Transmetal-2 skin fairly vibrated with warning. Too late; a thunder of laserfire thudded into the ground at his feet, throwing up debris.

"WHAT!"

Among the dust and dawn flew two aircraft, each baring the symbol of Primus upon their accursed plating. _AUTOBOTS!_ A third, one that was round and bulky, bobbed down from nowhere, spinning like a top and zooming around behind the Dragon. One by one, the Autobots transformed, landing with weapons bared and humming with power.

The great white mech spoke: "In the name of Cybertron, halt."

Smoothly, Megatron transformed, laughing. "_Three?_ Is this all Primal could gather? Three old, worn-out Autobots?"

The white mech smirked, a fair approximation of Megatron's own. "Old we might be, but hardly worn out." The long black gun in his hand never wavered as the ground began to vibrate, and the roar of a hundred engines filled the dust-clogged air. "Look around you, imposter."

Spinning around, Megatron came face-to-face with a wall of Autobots. Flying high above them, baring his dilapidated crew, was Optimus Primal. Quicker than the optic could follow, the Autobots ringed him, each fluidly drawing their weapons and levering them at his head.

Megatron laughed; it was far too easy! There was a ground-shaking thud as Primal transformed and landed within feet of his enemy.

"This ends now, Megatron!" the Transmetal-2 gorilla declared as the Maximals leapt off of him.

Megatron sighed and folded his arms. "Don't you feel rather repetitive saying that, Primal? Shouldn't you know by now that this shall never end? No matter how many times you try, I will rise like a Phoenix from the ashes. I am indestructible!"

"Evil is never indestructible," a new, powerful voice declared.

Heads spun as a massive red semi barreled into the ring; great jets of fire exploded from its tires as the machine threw itself into the air, transforming into the distinct form of Optimus Prime. Even Megatron fell victim to the shock and awe that descended upon Maximals and Autobots alike.

And then he recovered. Spreading his arms, he seemed to greet the former Autobot leader.

"Ah, it is you, Optimus Prime. You look extremely well. Have you come to repeat history? To destroy me at these very Gates to Cybertropolis, as you destroyed my predecessor? I do find it interesting that you chose to join us, especially after you know the truth." Megatron paused, enjoying the look of pure surprise on the ancient Autobot's face. "Did they not tell you? I find that extremely hard to believe; I thought that Maximals and Autobots shared the same rigid code of honor that compelled them to tell their deeds to their commanders. Alas, it seems not so. So let me regale you, Optimus Prime.

"Where did we go for those three years? We Maximals and Predacons battled on Earth – your precious, _prehistoric_ Earth. And during that time, the she-spider who stands at your side was one of my loyal troopers! It was she who gave me the codes to the great Teletraan-1 computer, the self-same system that allowed me access to your Ark. Yes, I, Megatron, found the Ark as it lay under its volcano, awaiting that historic moment in time. I walked the halls where you and your fellows lay in emergency stasis. I walked right up to you, Optimus Prime – and _blew your face off!_"

The impromptu arena fairly vibrated with shock and horror. Even the stalwart Prime, the so-called greatest Autobot leader of them all, fell back as if he had taken a mighty, physical blow.

Megatron raised his hands. "Time was on my side, but that creature who calls himself after you, thwarted my grandest plan. He took your spark from your very chest and implanted it in himself in a foolish effort to save your life. Lo, does he not look like you, does not sound like you? And I – I took the spark from the first Megatron. So you see, Optimus Prime, if you were to battle me, you would be battling your old foe; for while your Maximals ripped it from my chest, my cortex _remembers_. I am MEGATRON! And there is no other!"

* * *

Optimus Primal staggered backwards, completely thrown by Megatron's revelation. He turned his head, watching the reactions of the Autobots, of Optimus Prime. He could sense them swaying in their convictions, feel their stanch support slowly falling by the wayside. They were hurt, betrayed once more by those whom they had set aside their differences to trust and aid. And he would avenge them. 

"That Megatron is dead!" he shouted back. "And you carry with you his death. You might have him imprinted upon your core consciousness, as I might have Prime upon mine, but we are two different machines. Come on, Megatron, let's finish this!" Across the ring, the Dragon laughed. "It shall ever be your funeral, Optimus." He crouched, arms sweeping out. "Let it begin!"

---

Upon the ruined top floor of a rusted out building waited Mirage. The spy lay among the dirt and rust, his rifle propped up on the edge. Through his scope, he watched the two Transmetal titans land their first blows; even from this far out, he could feel the vibrations in the air and struggled to keep his system from going into flux and revealing his position. When the moment was right, he would put an end to this travesty and regain his peaceful reward.

---

Somewhere, deep inside his spark, Primal knew he could not defeat Megatron alone. That his strength was not enough to combat this deep, unadulterated evil. That thought nearly cost him his own life.

Around and around in the middle of the circle of Autobots they went, armor cracking and falling off in great chunks. Broken bits littered the floor, only to be crunched underfoot and proving treacherous going.

"I am the Alpha and Omega, Primal," Megatron growled as they locked hands, coming so close as to taste the sparks flying off their respective bodies. "You should know that right now." He broke his hold and swung at Primal's face; the Maximal ducked, countering with a kick to the legs.

"Let's say … I tend to forget," he returned, grunting. **Power at 60 and falling**, his computer intoned in his inner audio as Megatron brought his draconic hand around to lock about his neck. Primal gaped, struggling against the razor-sharp teeth that continued to saw into his plating. At the same time, Megatron's free hand drove into his stomach, ripping through layers of armor, reaching for his spark chamber.

Primal's optics bugged, coolant and other fluid bursting from his battered innards, spilling over Megatron's digits and mixing with the gunk on the ground. "ALL POWER TO LEGS!" he shouted, feeling everything that he was begin to drain away. **Affirmed.**

The rush almost blew what remained of his head off. Crouching, Primal drove himself forward, surprising Megatron and driving him backwards. At the same time, he felt something cool, like a wayward breeze, blow over his shoulder. It grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of coolant down his face. Ahead of him, Megatron cried out, releasing him to clutch at his head. Sparks fairly exploded from between his digits and rain upon the messy arena.

There was no time to find a reason for this sudden turn of events. Grabbing his injured side tight, Primal threw his good shoulder into Megatron, bringing the tyrant down, but not before a second, larger breeze cruised over his strut. At the same time Primal's shoulder contacted with the Dragon's body, Megatron's head seemed to erupt in a sea of structural components and malleable metal.

Coolant and mechfluid shot skyward from a ruptured line, drenching them both in blues and greens. With a thud, Megatron landed on the ground, Primal atop of him, his good hand locked around his throat.

"You … were … saying?" the Maximal grunted, looking into the ruined visage of his greatest enemy.

Megatron's ruined lips parted, but only sparks flew out. "_Do … it … Primal …"_ hissed over a broken, static commlink.

Could it be? Primal lifted his fist, ready to slam it through Megatron's chest. _Could_ he? For one moment, he was out of his body, looking down upon the scene, as buoyant as a ship upon water. He saw the ring of Autobots, saw the dazed expression of Optimus Prime; saw the bloodthirsty gleam in his own optics, the coolant upon his lips. He gazed upon the forthcoming death of Megatron and wondered if he could do it.

Rid the world of a tyrant, and another would rise in his place.

Primal's grip slacked a little, and he could feel a wave of triumph along the commlink. What was left of Megatron's face contorted into a maniacal grin.

"_You can do it,"_ another voice intoned, as if so very close. So close to his cortex, to his spark. Turning his head slightly, Primal locked optics with Prime. The elder Autobot nodded. Primal nodded back.

And punched his fist through Megatron's plating, grabbing that evil spark in his bare hands.

Lifted it.

Blew it up.


	13. Let's Kill All the Politicians

**Chapter Twelve**

_Justice does not descend from its pinnacle.  
—Dante, Purgatorio (VI, 37)_

Consciousness seemed a long time in coming; Primal was almost certain that he had fled the comfort of his body and was headed towards the Matrix when he felt a very real grip on his shoulder. The second sense to repair itself was audio:

"Ratchet! Wheeljack! First Aid!"

Primal became aware that he was being rolled over, and with that sensation came the pain. His cortex was afire with thousands of raw and ripped out lines all sending signals at the same time. He could taste his own coolant, bitter, upon his taste sensors, smell the acrid smoke rising from his brutalized chest. Black and white bands of static flickered across his optics, spitting and spluttering half-images that he could not make hide or hair of.

"There's too much damage, Optimus."

"I'm surprised he's stayed functioning this long."

"Save him; that's an order."

Someone was tugging on the back of his head. The last thing Primal heard were the murmurs of the Autobots as they took in this new turn of events. And then he slipped into forced stasis.

* * *

Almost as if they had rehearsed it, one by one the ring of Autobots stowed their weapons – into thighs, behind backs, hooked onto their hips, subspace. Flare's fingers trembled as she lowered her pistol into its hip holster and turned to look up at the line of warehouses. She couldn't see him, of course, but she knew he was there, watching. 

Inside the circle, it was as if Prime had battled the original Megatron all over again. The carnage was unbelievable – Captain Primal had little to no external armor left on his Transmetal-2 body. He'd been stripped to the bare minimum, and what was left of that was now covered in his own fluids. Bits and chunks of plating, wires and fluid, littered the ground wherever one looked; it was disgusting, and Flare felt her insides churn a little as she took it all in. At the moment, Optimus had Ratchet, First Aid and Wheeljack tending to the captain; as for Prime himself, he stood looking down at the body of the imposter, his face unreadable. The Maximals had broken rank and were streaking towards the bloodbath, each babbling uncontrollably.

"They have a lot of explaining to do," she heard Hound murmur to her left.

_Yes_, she agreed silently. They had thought everything was copasetic between the Autobots and the sub-faction, but this revelation by the imposter had wiped out every tentative tie that might have been established. Her Energon pump had sunk to the very bottom of her chest cavity, and she didn't know if it could ever be raised up again. There was no doubt about it that Megatron had spoken the truth – their reactions had confirmed their guilty omissions. And it made perfect sense, too – how else could a Maximal attain such size and resemblance to Optimus Prime, when all they had was a research vessel?

Of course, there came the question: did she really want to know? It wasn't as if she had any stake in the matter, having been born human. But it all boiled down to one simple, human and Transformer concept: violation of sacred space. To be unconscious and to have someone walk around your domain without your knowledge – that she could understand.

Someone was nudging her. She looked up, drawn out of her ruminations, to see Sideswipe eying her with concern. He was always the more conscientious of the two. "We'll help you throw their stuff into the compactor if you want, Flare."

She blinked, taken aback. "I –"

"They had every chance to come clean, and now we find out that they were stepping all over our bodies back on Earth? Don't tell me you'll still defend them."

Solarflare chewed on her lip, turning her head from the grisly site. "Don't antagonize her, Sideswipe," she heard Hound chastise.

"What, or she'll cry?" the red warrior taunted, the rising heat of the moment overwhelming his good tendencies.

Something was coming over the rusty horizon. Along with the bright rays of the sun, Flare could barely make out the forms of patrol vessels. Completely ignoring the bitch-fest between Lamborghini and Jeep, she raised her head and increased magnification.

"What do you see?" someone quietly whispered in her right audio.

"The law," she replied hollowly, the words remaining locked inside her chest, vibrating against her plating.

"Slag. Tell Prime. I'll pass the word."

Flare cut power to her optics and left Trailbreaker to his duty. She swallowed her revulsion and jogged up to the former Autobot leader. He was still staring at the body of the captain, who seemed to have lost more fluid. Coolant lapped at Optimus' toes, and she had to slosh through it to get to him.

"Optimus." More urgently, "Optimus."

"Solarflare?" His voice echoed around inside his battlemask, empty and despondent. This whole ordeal had broken the once-mighty Autobot more than he had let on, perhaps more than he knew.

"Optimus," she repeated, laying a hand on his arm. "We have a problem. The police are coming."

Painfully, he lifted his head from the triage scene and looked where she was pointing. Something within him seemed to snap together. Turning, he noticed that the Autobots were waving their hands over their faction symbols, fading the Face of Primus into the Maximal icon.

"Autobots!" he called out with that old resonance. "What do you think you are doing?" Activity stopped; the mechs looked up, surprised. "Are you ashamed of the symbol you proudly bore for an eternity? What is there to hide from? If they are coming for us, then I say we should face them as we are, as we were."

"But Prime," Ironhide protested, his symbol in flux, "we can't let them know –"

"That we still exist, old friend? That we passed over the reprogramming and still retain our Autobot personalities?"

Down the line and around the ring, heads hung; many immediately lifted their hands and banished the hologram that covered their true nature. Some had never done so in the first place. Optimus gave a slow nod of approval and tilted his head back to stare at the patrol ships as they made their final approach.

"Well," Sunstreaker declared, stepping into the arena, "if we're going down, might as well go out with a bang." He walked up to the corpse of Megatron, pulled out his gun and shot the cadaver in the head. Solarflare jumped back as residual fluid exploded from the neck joints, splattering the yellow warrior and the emergency repair team.

"Sunstreaker!" Prime exclaimed. But it was Ratchet who rose.

"You slaggin' pile of misaligned parts! What the fuck do you think you were doing? You could have sent this mech's system into shutdown." Reaching out, he violently ripped the gun from Sunstreaker's proud hand. "Give me that, you psychopath, and get back into line."

Sunstreaker expertly flipped Ratchet off before stalking back into place. "Now there's nothing to fix," he was heard to growl before being swallowed up by his comrades.

Ratchet sighed, glancing up at the cruisers. "He's going to need more medical attention than we can give him, Prime," the old CMO told the commander, resigned. "Everything is out of my league here. I didn't even bring my supplies when we were called."

"He's stable, for now," First Aid chimed in, "but not for long. I've jury-rigged a lot of his lines, but I'm more worried about his core consciousness. There's been heavy damage to his neural pathways as a result of shock."

"Do what you can." Prime folded his arms, watching as searchlights washed over them and a claxon began to blare out a message:

"**This is the Cybertropolis Police Force. Release your weapons and stay within view. We will be dropping officers momentarily." **

An arm slipped around Flare's waist, but she was too used to such invisible contact to do more than flick her crest in surprise. There was a clatter and splat as a well-loved white rifle and several canisters were dropped out of thin air. She stared at these in shock as Mirage flipped open the hatch of her holster, pulled her pistol free and dropped it with his own.

"Lu –?"

"Safe with Prowl. Prime and I came alone." Mirage blurred into the visible spectrum and gazed coolly up at the crafts that hovered above the arena, their bay doors sliding open and dropping armed officers.

"Hey, Mirage!" Brawn called out from the sidelines. "How much money do you have?"

A slow, emotionless smile crawled across the spy's flawless grey features. "Enough."

---

Cheetor sat with his hands between his legs, head hung low, trying not to listen to the news reports on the vid that was bolted to the opposite wall. To either side of him were Rattrap, Rhinox, Silverbolt and BlackArachnia, each trying to do the same thing.

"I'll take being held up in a mansion over this any day," BlackArachnia was saying, rocking back in her chair and tapping her head on the wall. "At least we could go outside."

Silverbolt laid a gentle, comforting hand on her shoulder. "I shall go and see if there is any new information about Optimus."

She sighed. "Don't bother, Bowser. They'll just tell you the same thing they told us ten minutes ago."

Rattrap made a noise deep in his throat. "I'll tell y'what, though – it's a slaggin' good thing they put us in different holds." He shuddered. "I'd rather not've been stuck with those psychopaths."

A slow pulse was working its way along Cheetor's temples, around to his optics, settling under his right orb. He dug his knuckle into the base of his optical socket, trying to ease the pain, but it would not be denied. "Did it ever occur to you that we should have been honest with the Autobots in the first place?"

"Ehhyaaah," Rattrap scoffed. "Listen, Spots, they wouldn't have given a flyin' retrorat about us anymore than they did if we had come clean. Slag, they might've locked us up when Megs broke lose because of it. Optimus did the right thing by witholdin' information, and if you think diff'rently, then keep it t'yourself."

Slowly, Cheetor looked up. Before his optics glimmered the memories of the past few hours, how the Cybertropolis Police had rounded them all up and herded them into different ships. He remembered the looks of disgust, of betrayal, in the Autobots' optics as they were led away. He also recalled how the three Autobot medics had jumped to save Optimus after he had killed Megatron.

Rhinox's massive paw of a hand gently closed on the young Maximal's shoulder. "Everything will be all right, Cheetor."

The Feral Cat looked away, sickened with himself, with them all. Across the room, the door's magnetic locks were unsealed, and a Maximal enforcer slipped into the room. He lifted a hand to stave off their obvious question. "Your captain is fine. We are in the process of finalizing his rebuilding; he will be able to join you in time for the hearing."

"Hearing? What hearing?" Rhinox demanded.

The enforcer remained by the door. "The Autobots' hearing, of course. While in questioning, the mech and femme from Ligier Tower admitted to everything. How they took you and the Predacon into custody without alerting the authorities, how they coerced you into joining the hunt when he escaped from their facilities." Regardless of the naked shock upon their faces, he continued, "While the case still needs to be thoroughly investigated, none of you are being held accountable for what went on in the Warehouse District."

Silverbolt jumped up. "This cannot be so!" he exclaimed, argent ears flicking back in acute distress.

"Silverbolt!" BlackArachnia hissed, making a grab for his arm; the wolf-eagle easily evaded her.

"Officer – listen, please. We were all at fault for what happened down there. They did not coerce us – we went of our own volition. Understand that what Mirage and Solarflare did was out of the best interest for _Cybertron_ – not for themselves."

Rattrap whistled. "Oh, _Sil_-verbolt! Don't interrupt the nice officer when he's slipping us our freedom on a fine crystal platter!"

The wolf-eagle's head snaked around, gave Rattrap a horrified glance before turning back around. "Please, you must understand."

The Maximal enforcer seemed unswayable. "We understand the awe you must feel around these war heroes, but their time is gone, soldier. We apologize for their actions. It happens now and then – one of the old guard slips a circuit and tries to relive the glory days. All of this could have been avoided had they accepted reprogramming, as many of their contemporaries did, but they refused. Stubborn fools." He stepped back and pulled open the door. "A guard will be by momentarily to take you to see your captain." And with that he was gone, the locks humming into place. The moment they were alone, Rattrap turned on Silverbolt.

"You get hit by some of Megs' plating, Bolt? What were you thinking?"

The wolf-eagle bared his teeth, hackles rising along with his brown pinions. "You are severely missing the point, Rodent," he replied through a locked jaw. "The Towerdwellers are accepting _all_ responsibility!"

"So?" Rattrap scoffed, flicking imaginary dust off his shoulderplate. "From what I heard, he's loaded. He could buy off the whole Council, so why worry?"

BlackArachnia rose and smoothly interposed herself between her mate and the agent. "I get what he's saying, Rattrap. They're taking the whole blame, even after Megs spilled. _Even after._"

"So we're a charity case now. So what?"

"Enough. All of you." The room suddenly seemed smaller once Rhinox stood up and got between _BlackArachnia_ and Rattrap. "This is bigger than anything we've ever come across. So we either work together or go to this hearing divided. I'd rather not be upset at any of you right now. I'm more worried about Optimus – and so should all of you."

"We are, Rhinox," Cheetor whispered quietly. "And you know what? If Optimus were here, he'd agree." Rattrap threw his hands up into the air and stalked off into a corner.

In time, a new guard came by – armed with a no-nonsense rifle – and led them from their detention chamber. The Maximals were quick-marched down the hall and not allowed to dally in the corridors. They passed several holds, and at each one, savage blue optics stared out them with unadulterated hatred. At the far end of the white hall, a door opened and out stepped Mirage and Solarflare, both Autobots' hands linked behind their backs, held in place with glowing red energy wraps. The femme's gaze was locked on the opposite wall, her face set into a grim mask; Mirage's visage was unreadable.

As the Maximals walked on, the Autobots turned towards them; both faces remained the same. A guard for each came up behind and looped their digits into the hole made by their linked hands. "Orders are to release the others," a tall, broad femme guard was saying. "The Elders want to conference with Optimus Prime, first, so let him up. No bonds, though."

"Release the others?" a mech officer exclaimed. "They're not worried about them storming the Hall?"

The femme laughed. "No, not with these two's assurance. Isn't that right, 'Lord and Lady Ligier'?"

Mirage snorted defiantly. "My dear, you had best watch yourself, lest you find yourself under my payroll."

"Sure. Let's go, old timer." The femme made a gesture to her comrades, complete with a wink, before leading the Autobots off.

The enforcer leading the Maximals banged the butt of his rifle on his thigh to grab their attention. "Enough dallying, soldiers. Let's go."

As they were hurried forward, Cheetor exclaimed: "Why? Why are you doing this? —Oof!" A guard from the nobles' contingent pushed him non-too-gently forward, the look in his optics telling the young Maximal all he needed to know.

"_We'll speak of this matter later, Cheetor,"_ a voice inside his inner audio resonated.

Cheetor almost stopped again, wondering how on Cybertron Mirage was linking up with him, when they shared no frequencies. Hurriedly glancing over his shoulder as the two were led in the opposite direction, Cheetor picked up his pace.

* * *

Unlike the holding block, the ward was unguarded. At the doors to Optimus' room, the enforcer gestured them inside, but made no effort to follow them within. Surprised by such freedom, the Maximals' attention turned to their leader. The inside of the recovery ward was covered from floor to ceiling in white and silver tile. A plaque embedded into the wall ironically read: _Courtesy of Mirage and Solarflare Ligier: in Memory of Those Who Gave it all at Autobot City, 2005 ET._

A lone figure sat in a chair up against a wide bay window overlooking prime Cybertropolis nightlife. Neon signs and holograms were reflected in the Plexiglas surface, over the reformatted figure of Optimus Primal.

"Big … Bot?" Cheetor offered up quietly, pausing with his hand on the foyer wall.

Slowly, the new Optimus turned around; his motions were slow and obviously painful, unlike his past transformations. This new body would definitely take some time to get used to. He was acutely smaller in stature, more like his original form, before he took Prime's spark into his body. It seemed that the surgeons who operated him had taken inspiration from what his cortex recalled of his other two forms, along with his last one: this new Primal was a mixture of all three. His face was the original, complete with the silver half-mask lining his upper lip and chin; his body was tailored to the Transmetal form; the coloration mirrored his Transmetal-2 design.

Slowly, Primal smiled. "Cheetor. Rhinox, Silverbolt, BlackArachnia, Rattrap. It's good to see you." His voice rasped and skipped, as if his vocal box were brand new.

Rhinox laughed low and throaty. "It's good to see you too, Optimus. I must say, you look well."

In reply, Primal lifted his arms and turned them over. "Yes, I do seem to be doing all right. They tell me that if it wasn't for those Autobot medics, I would have suffered core failure. Are they around? I wasn't told who operated on me – only a guard was there when I rose from stasis."

There was leaden silence as the other Maximals looked at each other. Primal's new brow ridges rose in concern. "What? Tell me what's wrong."

Quickly and quietly, Rhinox explained the situation; Primal's shocked look grew until all of his new face was stretched with disbelief. With a massive grunt, he shoved himself out of his chair. "We must set this right! They can't be held accountable for all of this!" But Rhinox was right there, laying his shoulder into the reenergized captain.

"No. We can't."

With effort, Primal lifted himself from Rhinox's well-meaning hold. He stood swaying, facing away from his crew. "After everything …" he whispered half to himself. "After finding out … they still did it." He turned. "Do you know why?"

Cheetor shook his head. "We saw Mirage and Solarflare being led away when we were coming to see you, Big Bot. Mirage told me he'd tell us later."

Four pairs of optics rotated and bore into the young Maximal. "How?" BlackArachnia demanded. "He didn't say a thing."

Cheetor tapped his cranial ridge. "Here. He sent to me."

Primal let loose a low rumble, deep in his vocalizer. "Just … _Prime_." He stared out the window, down into the lifeblood of Cybertron. "And they won't listen to anything we say."

Rhinox came over and laid a hand on Primal's shoulder. "I wouldn't worry about them, Optimus …"

The Maximal captain's shoulders heaved. "I do, Rhinox. We should have told them from the beginning. Well, I will set things right. When's the hearing?"

Silverbolt's wings rustled. "We know not, Optimus. Nothing was divulged unto us, save that we could see you."

Optimus Primal sighed. "I guess we wait, then."

---

Waiting for an answer to come lasted for four days. During that time, the Maximals were sequestered in a special suite, none of them allowed to leave save under two guards. But no one wanted to leave, unless they could speak with the Autobots – and that, of course, was denied. So in these rooms they remained, until the day of the hearing.

Flanked by ten enforcers, the crew of the Axalon was loaded into a transport vessel and flown to the Maximal Council of Elders Hall in the center of Cybertropolis. There they were seated among some other curious spectators, who undoubtedly wanted to witness for themselves the drama that had been unfolding on the nightly news vids. In person, the Council Hall was a grand affair: bowl-shaped with a platform situated in the center, several chairs and a table raised higher upon a dais. It was patterned in silver, gold and white, with sweeping spires and curves, all in splendid grandeur. A podium sat fixed before the table. News crews sat in the sweeping balconies – there was even a human representative present.

Just as the audience was getting restless, a herald stepped out from a hidden door and declared: "The Council of Elders is now in session. Please rise."

With some grumbling among his crew, Primal rose along with everyone else. The Council members – some reformatted and reprogrammed Autobots – filed into the bowl. They carried no discernable altmodes, seeming rather bare and alien, non-Transformer-like. One by one, they walked up to their chairs and sat down.

"You may be seated," the Maximal Elder in the center intoned. With a rustle of mechanics, the audience sat. "The Maximal Council of Elders calls Mirage and Solarflare Ligier of the Towers."

Along the far wall of the great basin, two great doors slid open with nary a clang. Out into the spotlight, hand in hand, walked the two Autobots; they stopped before the sculpted podium and looked up into the faces of the Elders. Mirage wore a thick, dark grey cape fastened to his shoulders, while Solarflare flew an elegantly-patterned silk scarf; their faces were impassive as they stood before the Council.

"Mirage and Solarflare Ligier," began the Elder in the center, "you stand accused of withholding vital information from this Council, and holding a member of the Predacon Alliance captive on your spaceport grounds. Due to your alleged actions, this mech, who called himself Megatron, was found terminated at the Gates to Cybertropolis. You say that you did this for the good of Cybertron, but in doing so, you violated the Pax Cybertronia, the very pact that you helped create." There was a distinct, powerful pause; a pause that indicated to those gathered in the chamber that this Elder considered himself above them. That he disdained them, and had already formed his opinion. "What have you to say in your defense?"

Down in the bowl, Mirage lifted his right hand and laid it on the podium, but kept his left locked around Solarflare's. "You boldly name us of the Towers," he began grandly, every inch the noblemech, "yet you forget one small part of our title: Autobot." He tilted his chin and looked down his nose defiantly.

"Who knew the old stiff had it?" Rattrap whispered.

"_Quiet_," someone next to him hissed, and the Rat turned around to see a bulky light green mech sidle in behind them. A rotor blade, or something similar, poked over both shoulders; beside him, a fire-colored mech pawed for a seat. Though shadow obscured much of their faces, what could be seen of them was in the form of the Face of Primus. _Autobots_. Across the chamber, Primal noticed that the relatively low amount of spectators was suddenly growing in earnest.

Along the grand bench, the lead Elder lowered his head with mock allowance. "Autobots, then. An ancient title, one I thought all of Optimus Prime's followers gave up after the war."

Mirage curled his lip in such a manner that it looked rather graceful. "Forced," he pronounced. "Regardless. We did what we were trained to do: protect Cybertron."

"The age of the Autobots and Decepticons are over, Lord Ligier," someone along the right side of the bench noted.

"You made it so. You say that Solarflare and I, along with our Autobot brethren, signed the Pax Cybertronia. If you look at that document, I tell you, you will not find our names among the signers. Politicians, all; not even Optimus Prime's name is among them. You and your fellows conceived the Pax Cybertronia – not once were we invited to sign. Invited to the ceremony, true, but after that, you threw us all aside –"

The center Elder interrupted, "We do not need an oratory on the document, Lord Ligier. You waste our time and yours with your trivialities."

Solarflare turned her head as Mirage's shoulders heaved. He pounded the podium with such strength that it split down the middle. "Trivialities!" the white-blue mech roared, all pretense of the noble gone. Instead, he was a battle-scarred warrior who had remade his fortune, but was forced to remain hidden because of who he had been. "It is because of _us_ that you sit where you do now! And if this imposter of the Predacons had been able to live, to go back to them, they would have plotted to revive the Decepticons! And then where would we be? Another Great War, nine million more years of conflict and death and destruction!"

"SILENCE!"

Solarflare threw her head back, a high keen splitting her words. "Fools. All of you! You condemn us with petty politics. We did what we did – we admit it. For the better of Cybertron, so that you might continue to sit where you do, with no cause for concern."

The eldest Elder reached for a large gavel and began hammering judiciously. "Enough, ENOUGH! If you have nothing else to give us but to rant about your lost fame, Lord and Lady Ligier, then this hearing is complete and your judgment subject to debate."

A slow, devious smile graced the face of Mirage of the Towers. "If you will not hear _us_, Lord Elder, than perhaps you will hear others. Others like us who would have done the same."

The Council members leaned forward, hissing and whispering among themselves: "What does he speak of?" "What nonsense is this?" "Send them away."

The Elder curled his lip; on him, it looked savagely ugly. "Your time is up."

"Look around you," Mirage declared. "And you'll find not _one Maximal_ – save the Axalon crew –present. _Autobots_ are here, Lord Elder. And you will hear them out."

Down in the safety of their bench, the nine Elders began to shift. All around the Council chamber, mechs and femmes starting rising; on each and every one, the red face of Primus gleamed. The Maximals suddenly found themselves surrounded by not only many members the Ark crew, but those who had manned Autobot City, the two Moonbases, and the various resistance cells on Cybertron. A mass of Transformers began to pour into the basin, which was suddenly minus Solarflare and Mirage.

As chaos reigned around them, Optimus Primal decided that this would be the time to leave. "All right, everyone, let's make a quick and clean exit."

BlackArachnia sniffed, looking over the balustrade at the complete press of bodies. "You don't have to tell me twice."

"Going so soon, Captain?" a rather cheerful, cultured voice proclaimed from thin air. Before them, Mirage – and Solarflare – ripped into the visible spectrum. The grey femme was grinning from audio to audio as she turned to look at the revolt below. "We thought you'd walk out with us."

BlackArachnia locked gazes with the older femme. "You planned this."

Solarflare shrugged. "Not exactly, but you'd be amazed at how many people wanted to be here." She pointed to the bench where the Elders were trying to stave off a wall of old Autobots, each of whom were demanding a say in the Predacon matter, each with a war story to tell.

"Can we just walk out of here?" Silverbolt inquired, glancing over his shoulder as the crowd swelled. "Are you not on trial?"

Mirage smiled humorlessly. "After this? I do not think so. I believe they will be far too busy to attend to us." He drew his arm around Solarflare's waist. "Let's go." They turned as one and began winding their way through the other Transformers who were still trying to get down to the bowl. As they ascended the stairs, they saw a familiar figure in hulking yellow waiting for them.

"Nice speech, Raj," Sunstreaker commented lazily. "I almost cried."

Mirage chuckled. "I'll work on it for next time, Sunshine. Is the shuttle ready?"

The melee warrior cracked his knuckles. "You betcha."

As if Rattrap's silver pate wasn't already wrinkled enough, the espionage agent's frown of confusion only deepened the grooves. "Are you guys psychic or somethin'?" he asked. "I never seem to see any of you talkin' to each other about these so-called plans."

"Spend some more time with your crew, and one day, you'll be able to anticipate their needs, too," Solarflare told him as they began walking out – completely scott-free.

Primal shook his head in disbelief. "Mirage – Solarflare – let me apologize –"

Mirage held up his hand. "It's not to either of us that you owe an apology, Captain Primal. We did what we did because we wanted to. Flare and I had a long discussion about this when we were sitting in solitary. Both of us wanted to throw it in with you and your crew, but we couldn't. Not in the end." He looked at Solarflare. "I suppose you could say we were both swayed by your courage and the way you handled yourself in battle. We're still upset with you for betraying our trust, but that will be worked out in due time. In any case, Optimus is waiting to speak with you, Captain."

Primal's new face positively blanched. "Now?"

Solarflare's smile was not its usual sunny affair. "Aye, Captain. He's waiting back home." She looked at the rest of the crew. "I would say you are welcome at the Tower, but I cannot. Your gear – all of it – has been moved to a hotel in the Gold District of the city. I'm sure you'll find it more to your liking than our estate."

For their actions, they wouldn't have flinched if she said it was all burning, or lying at the bottom of the public smelters. And they were grateful – most of them. Rattrap merely folded his buck-teeth over his lower lip and pouted.

Into the clean, clear Cybertronian daylight they stepped. Two large shuttles were idling on the tarmac, both garishly and newly painted with Primus' face. Primal halted at the steps of the shuttle Sunstreaker was climbing into, watching as his crew – his friends – were expertly loaded into the other shuttle by the Autobots Bluestreak and Ironhide.

"Captain," Solarflare quietly prompted, resting her hand on his arm. "Please."

Grimly, he nodded, and ascended.


	14. Til All Are One

**Chapter Thirteen**

_"We from the greatest body move,  
Emerging in the heaven that is pure light;  
Light of the understanding, full of love,  
Love of the true good, full of joy within,  
Joy that transcends all the heart conceiveth of."  
—Dante, Paradiso, Canto XXX, Lines 38-42_

Optimus Primal slouched in his seat in the hopper, properly-proportioned arms dangling between his legs. In front of him, Mirage and Sunstreaker talked in low tones as they ran through the take-off sequence. Solarflare seemed preoccupied, staring intently at a hand-held vid unit; Primal could not hear any audio, for the femme was plugged directly into the device.

Still slouching, the reborn Maximal turned his head slightly, watching the landscape change as the sleek craft rose into the air. This vehicle was very different from the old junk heap he and his crew had boarded – what, a week ago? Two weeks? So much had happened, he wondered in the back of his core consciousness if this was all real, or had Megatron actually managed to pull off a victory?

Anything would be better than having to face Optimus Prime, he knew that much. He wondered what the old Autobot commander had in store for him, what he was going to say to the mech who had held his own spark in his body.

"We're all over the newsvids," Solarflare murmured.

"Really," Mirage drolled lazily over his shoulder. "Let's hear."

"**In a stunning turn of events, the high-born Tower Elites Mirage and Solarflare Ligier were allowed to walk free from a hearing before the High Council this afternoon. The Ligiers, once Autobot soldiers on Earth three hundred years ago, were accused of planning and following through with the assassination of the Predacon rebel known as Megatron. Sources close to the Towers say that the Ligiers have never been content with their positions as forgotten war heroes, and conspired with other former, non-reformatted Autobot soldiers to commit this act of termination using several Maximals as their agents. **

"**Proceedings were interrupted when Lord Mirage Ligier incited a small riot, causing the forum to empty onto the dais where the Elders were swamped with protests from more ex-Autobot warriors. As of this reporting, the Protectorate is still trying to sort out the mess left by the Ligiers. Stay tuned; coming up, we will be canvassing the Council Hall and taking opinions from many of the former Autobots who still remain."**

"At least we're not wanted," Mirage noted. He cocked his head over his shoulder. "We're not, are we?"

As far as Primal could discern, there was a touch of unease in the spy's tone. From where he sat, was it his imagination, or was the cock-sure spy's shoulders dipping with the weight of the pronouncement?

"No," Solarflare replied. "They're just painting us as bitchy, PTSD soldiers who have a beef with the government."

Sunstreaker laughed rudely. "I'll say. Hey, Raj, what are your high-priced fuck-buddies going to say about you now? I'm sure that this'll make for interesting conversation at the next turbofox hunt."

Primal watched as the noblemech leaned back in the pilot's chair, his shoulders suddenly gone stiff. "I'll concern myself with that later, Sunstreaker," he said at last, ice forming on the edges of his words.

Solarflare pocketed the vid. "Don't antagonize him, Sunshine," she reproached. "He's been wired all day."

The yellow melee warrior's chin tipped down as he peered around the corner of his chair, steering with his knees. A cold frown formed on his silver face, optic ridges drawing close together. Defiantly, the femme stared back. They locked gazed, until, against Primal's bet, Solarflare turned away first, looking out the window. Sunstreaker continued to peer backwards, settling his predatory optics on Primal.

"Well, don't you look happy," he drawled sarcastically. "I don't know why Prime wants to see you, after all of this, but I tell you, skidwipe, you better come clean."

Primal jerked upright. He stared at the yellow Autobot, optics wide. Sunstreaker sneered. "Got a reaction outta you, eh? Good; tells me you're not addled."

The Maximal sighed; how much more could he put up with this? With the need to prove their intentions over and over again? In front of him, Solarflare pressed the palms of her hands to her optics, a low rumble emanating from her vocalizer. Concerned, Primal leaned forward, reaching out with one hand to touch the femme's knee-spike. After everything, she had somehow stood by them, championed them against her comrades and her bondmate. "Don't you see you're upsetting her?" he said at last, challenging himself to meet the purported psychopath's steel blue optics.

"Flare can take care of herself," the yellow mech growled. Beside him, Mirage remained unsettlingly quiet, staring straight ahead to pilot the craft through the miasma that was evening Cybertropolis traffic.

Primal stirred, taken aback by this harsh coldness and complete disregard. "What more can I tell you? How much more can I give? I'm sorry; I've apologized for myself and my crew a hundred times already, and that doesn't seem to be enough for some of you! We were wrong, and I admit that."

Sunstreaker snorted, eyeballing the hand on Solarflare's knee spike. "Whatever." And he turned around, leaning over the controls.

Sighing, Primal lifted his hand from where it touched the femme, only to have her slim black fingers slowly curl over his rough digits. "Forgiven," she whispered, and gently let him go. He watched as she rose and moved to another part of the craft, propping her elbow on the window sill. Pity washed through the Maximal commander; pity for himself and for them, for all the anguish and despair, for the shunting aside, for their pain. Pity for the fact that no matter what he said or did, it would never earn him back the respect and trust that had been so fragile in the beginning. That was gone, completely and utterly lost. And while a medium might suggest that it was both their faults, perhaps they should have come clean when they were first approached.

He kept coming back to that conclusion, didn't he?

Time slid by in uncomfortable silence; Solarflare remained where she had removed herself to, staring off into space. Though, now and then, if Primal looked up, he could see the blue helm of the Ligier spy turn slightly, checking on her.

Just when Sunstreaker and Mirage began powering the hopper down in the courtyard of Ligier Tower, Primal was shocked into realizing that he had prepared no words for Optimus Prime. His lines ran cold and his cortex buzzed with the apprehension.

_No_, his rational, commander personality thundered, _stand up. Everything will be all right. You are, effectively, two Primes talking to each other. Be nothing but yourself. Above all: be truthful._

Resolutely, Primal pushed the doubt and anxiety to the side and stood up as Mirage threw open the hopper's door. When Sunstreaker loomed over him, seeming to be his escort, the reformatted Maximal squared his shoulders. "No, thank you," and descended the ramp, walking along the cobblestone pathway without a second glance. More than ever, his destiny awaited him within.

The white-silver femme Illusion was waiting in the foyer. She looked up, startled, when he walked in alone. "Where might I find Optimus Prime?" he asked quietly, well aware she was drinking in his much-changed appearance.

"Down the hall, to the right. Prowl is with him at the moment."

He nodded to her, and moved on past, to the door she had indicated. A short knock and a turn of the handle, and he was within. Two mechs sat in chairs opposite each other: Prowl, and Optimus Prime. They glanced up as he entered: Prowl, with an emotionless mien; Prime, more thoughtful, though one could never tell with the faceplate.

With a low grunt, Prowl shoved himself to his feet. "I'll be in the library, Prime." He paused in his exit, looking Primal over with a sharp, knowing optic. Saying not a word, the former vice commander left, decisively shutting the door behind him.

Optimus Prime turned in his chair, raising his head a little higher. "From one Optimus to another: Captain, sit, please."

With a deep breath that filled his ventilators, Primal sat, gripping the arms of the chair. "Sir," he began, meeting the elder mech's optics square-on, "I will begin at the beginning." Optimus Prime merely nodded, a far-off film hovering on the borders of his optics. And so, Primal commenced.

* * *

Mirage sat at the kitchen counter, sculpted chin propped between his hands. Sunstreaker had left almost immediately, to spend his precious time in one of the houses of ill-repute, rather than wait. Elita-1 had taken Solarflare to another room almost as quickly, her judicious blue optics narrowing with reproach when she saw how stressed the younger femme was. Illusion went right along, leaving the spy completely alone. Not even Prowl would join him, preferring to gather as much information on the proceedings as possible, in case he had to end up as the de-facto lawyer. So, for the first time in about five hundred years, Mirage was completely alone, isolated within his own home – one that he had spent so much time and energy building, making it the perfect residence. 

A basket of Earth pears sat before him. Half-heartedly, he reached for one, despondently crunching through it, reflecting on how he had had his systems recalibrated for organic as well as Energon. So much he had done, so much time and money. Was it really worth it when no one other than the snooty Elite cared where you came from? There had been a time when that was all that mattered, but that Mirage was a long-distant memory, a moral for his current personality.

He thought about the look on Flare's face, tossed her words of defense around in his cortex over and over again. His shoulders hunched and his head dropped further. That captain had the right of it, he was so sore to admit. While he could not forgive that act of mistrust, he could not justify hurting the one Transformer who meant everything to him. It was she who bore the brunt of the arguments, bore it high on her struts and with increasing strain. How could he make it up to her?

A whisper of a touch on his shoulder caused him to lift his head and set aside the pear's core. "We'll get through this, won't we?" Solarflare murmured, her talons gently grazing his armor.

Wordlessly, he reached up and took her by the waist, pulling her into his arms, onto his lap.

Surprised, she wrapped her arms about his neck as he buried his face in her throatlatch. "We will; we always have. But … Flare, I will personally hunt down and destroy whatever mechanism or organism comes between me and our family," he murmured passionately. "I fought too hard and too long, lost everything and almost everyone because of the ambitions of others. And if that means flicking a few credits in the direction of politicians, so be it. Or standing atop a crumbling structure and shooting a few slugs into the maniacal cortex of a madmech, I will do that as well. And no one will tell me differently."

"Raj …" Her fingertips ran along the back of his helm soothingly.

"Forgive me, Flare, for my callousness. For hurting you when you so desperately tried to make everything all right."

Gently, she kissed the top of his pharonic helm; his fingers pressed into her plating, and he lifted his face to hers. "Flare?"

A small smile formed on her charcoal lips. "Forgiven. Just … listen to me, next time."

Mirage returned the smile, albeit a little sadly. "I think I just might be asking a lot of your opinion in the coming months. I don't believe we're out of the woods just yet. If the reaction to the hearing is as large as I hope, we might be on the verge of a massive political reform."

Thoughtfully, she tweaked his noble nose. "You're never going to stop until you own all of Cybertron, are you?" She smirked lightly.

Playfully, he returned the favor. "No, I suppose not. A mech has to have a hobby." He paused. "But seriously, Flare."

She nodded. "It'd be great to go out and wear my symbol and not that stupid holographic image."

"I know," he agreed, pulling her close. "Me, too." He turned his head towards the hall. "I wonder how they're doing."

She followed his gaze. "We'll find out sooner or later, I suppose."

* * *

At the end of his tale, Primal merely shrugged to say "that's it". Across the smartly tiled floor, Optimus Prime appeared lost in thought. The silence stretched for a long time, so long, in fact, that Primal began to worry if perhaps the older mech had nodded off. But his blue optics were still gleaming, the small sensors lowered to the floor. At last, the great Autobot commander lifted his head. "I suppose," he began in a low drawl, "you want to know why I gave it all up." 

Primal's brow ridge flew up into his new helm. It wasn't the conversation he'd been expecting to have, but as he watched the rise and fall of Prime's shoulders, it seemed as if this was something the older mech wanted. He leaned forward. "Back at the Academy, we were taught that most of the Autobots had accepted the reformatting process, as well as the upgrade to the new Maximal program. They said that you had voluntarily vanished from the public eye in order to help society. It wasn't until we came here that we learned the truth."

Prime tipped his head. "Solarflare and Mirage told you, I see. They were two of the ones who were most upset at what happened at the signing of the Pax Cybertronia."

"More or less," Primal agreed, clearly recalling Mirage's passionate proclamation at the hearing.

"I thought about signing the Pax, but when I learned that none of my warriors were going to be invited to place their names among the roster, I backed out." Optimus Prime paused, thoughtfully running his thick blue fingers over the steel blue of the chair. "There was no way in the Matrix I was going to put my name on a document that would not have them with it. There was certainly enough room, but the Elders thought that it would be more significant to just have me. We argued about it for a good while, until I decided that it was either all of us, or none. They rejected my ultimatum and thus I walked away. I did not recount the full of events to my warriors, former at that point, because I'd grown tired of the fighting, and I knew that those of my old command, such as Hot Rod, Ultra Magnus, Jazz … they would not stand for it.

"I look back on those days now, and I wonder, if perhaps I had pushed harder, exerted some force left within me, I could have gotten the Elders to withdraw their protests." The great head turned and again stared Primal full in the face. "What you were taught in the Academy were well-spun half-truths. Yes, the majority of the Autobots did upgrade and reprogram, but for some reason, those of my old command refused the Maximal reprogramming. I did as well. I do not know why, completely, but I feel that I could not hide all of myself. Each one of them will give you a reason, but I suspect it was out of loyalty for me."

Quietly, Primal drank in every single word from the Autobot's vocalizer and stored it away for further reference. When Prime spoke no more, he realized it was his turn. "Of course it's loyalty," he returned in a low voice. "How could they not? Forgive me … Optimus … but they believe in you, and they love you, beyond that love with which a good commander holds his troops. I saw you in that meeting you held here – how they all stood to attention and listened, even though the war is far gone. You are more than a military commander to them, you are … a _leader_. One that should rightfully be sitting with the Elders –over them, preferably."

Along Prime's right optic, metal tic'ed. "It is strange to hear that from a Maximal," he replied with a hint of a chuckle.

"But aren't Maximals sparked from Autobot core consciousnesses? From Autobot technology?"

"True."

"I believed in the Elders, and I held them in trust, but after seeing the contempt with which they handled the situation with Mirage and Solarflare … I cannot do that anymore. Your friends are out there, Optimus Prime – they're waiting for you."

Slowly, the great commander rose from his chair. There was an audible creak of joints and servos that had not seen repair in a while. "But here is the problem," he said quietly. "I do not think I can do it."

Higher and higher rose Primal's brow ridge. "But you can. They believe in you."

Pity shone in Optimus Prime's optics. "Someone can believe in you as hard and as true as they want, but belief cannot power an aging system, Optimus Primal. One must have the want and desire, no matter how small. And I am afraid I no longer possess it."

Primal clenched his teeth, his neuros raw with stress. "What about all the Autobots who you say live in obscurity, walking around with holographic Maximal symbols because it is unfavorable to be an Autobot anymore? What about them? Say the word and society will change for you."

Slowly, Prime shook his head. "I'm sorry, Captain. I can no longer be the figurehead."

The Maximal rose from his chair and reached out to clamp his paw on Prime's shoulder. At the moment of contact, a bright light flare out from where the two touched. Optics shining with a radiance that had not been seen in a long time, they looked at each other. From within the great Prime's chest, the Matrix glowed, and overpowered them both.

* * *

A short – or long – while later, Optimus Primal lifted himself from the floor. Across the room, Optimus Prime lay propped up against the wall, his chest open, the energies of the Matrix shining through its protective casing. 

_Oh, Primus!_ Primal thought in shock, scurrying over to the Autobot. _I've terminated Optimus Prime! –Again!_ "Optimus, Optimus Prime!" he called out, low and harsh, hoping no one had heard the thud of two large mechs hitting the ground. "Please, dear Primus, tell me he functions."

Shuttered blue optics fluttered, then lifted up, displaying the glowing orbs Primal had looked into back on Earth, in the Ark. Prime grunted, levering himself off the wall; he pushed himself into a sitting position and peered within his chest. Slowly, he lifted his head. "You revitalized the Matrix," he murmured. "I … I feel …"

"Reborn?" Primal offered with a wry twist of his lip components. "I've had that feeling more than once."

"Stronger, powerful, peaceful," the older Prime agreed. He pushed harder and stood, reverently folding the two halves of his chest shut. "I haven't felt like this since I used the Matrix to revive Cybertron."

Cautiously, Primal offered a question. "Does that mean …?"

"That I will go forward and press for change?" Prime reached down and lifted the Maximal to his feet. This time, no light flared, but a small current of electricity did pass through each mech. "Yes, I believe I shall." He let go of Primal and flexed one arm; no creaking could be heard. Turning his head, the Autobot leader favored his other self one more glance. "And thank you, Optimus Primal, for believing in me."

Primal merely smiled, feeling within his spark – that soul they both shared – that while it would take a long time to change, things would be all right.

"Til all are one," he quoted with a grin.

"Til all are one," Optimus Prime agreed.

---

High on a balcony in one of the shining minarets, a grey femme and a white and blue mech stood, overlooking Cybertropolis.

"Deliberations begin tomorrow," Mirage murmured.

"Are you ready?" Solarflare asked.

"With my friends and family on our side, of course I am."

She smiled, leaning over the balcony to stare at the large red Face of Primus that hung like an angel over the capital of Cybertron.

**Finis**

_AN: To see one artist's interpretation of G1 Solarflare, copy and paste the following URL, and don't forget to remove the spaces. :D www. vahazayi. com/ gallery/ fax2/ fax2novjaggyd. jpg  
Art © Jaggyd._


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